League of Legends: Fatebound Blades
by Angeluslight
Summary: Follow a fan-made champion in the realm of the original lore, where a fiery swordsman joins the League of Legends to ally himself with a former Noxian soldier of fierce renown. Things take an unexpected turn when the unthinkable happens, bringing the Institute of War to its knees, and crippling the very order it had been formed to establish. High stakes, no respawns.
1. Chapter 1: Scars of the Past

**-  
Ch. 1**

 ** _Scars of the Past_**

It was a scene all too familiar. Men of malicious intent, armed to the teeth, razing a village of innocent people with little to no means of defense. Rainfall hissed on the flames that protruded from the burning buildings that brightly illuminated the night air. Clashing and grinding of metal rang out amidst the shouting of commands and bloodthirsty battle-cries. A picture far more common in Valoran than it should be, only this time, it was different for him. This wasn't just another quiet village he stumbled upon during his travels. Though he never considered it a home, it meant almost more than that. It was a _sanctuary_ ; a temporary place eked out from violent oppression for the sole purpose of remaining hidden for safety, now being torn apart by the very storm it sought shelter from. Once more, he found himself contending an outnumbered battle, only now, in the last place he wanted, much less expected, to fight in.

"Go!" he shouted to his comrades. "Caesar, take the right!" a quick-thinking mind played his tactics. He was a large guy with an even larger axe—crushing the clustered flank should be no problem for him.

"Layla, Ken, the left!" Swift, dual short swords, and a trickster with a knack for throwing knives, should deal with the spaced-out flank quickly, while providing ample cover for each other.

"Garner, you're with me." His charge took him down the middle, longsword in-hand and a skilled lance at his side. Weapons clashed, armor cracked, and blood stained the once-tranquil grass of a hamlet that refugees called 'home'.

 _"_ _Faster,"_ he thought to himself, cutting one enemy down after another in a series of lethal flashes of his blade. _"More commotion."_ He had to make their foes call for the rest of their forces to meet them in battle, in order to steer them away from their chase of those fleeing for their lives. He and his 'mercenary-knights', as many called them, could take the fight… _all_ of it. They **_had_** to. It was all or nothing.

Noxian brands on the helmets and crests of the invaders' armor sundered at the experienced blade's heft, thinning out their lines. Questions hared his mind, further fueling his will to fight. How could they have found this place? Why would they go so far as to hunt us all down after we left Noxus? Am I too late…?

The small band of intrepid mercenaries pushed through the Noxian soldiers, forcing them to have grouped up on the edge of the town. Their ranks began to fold together, more organized in order to counter the unexpected threat they had underestimated. The mercenary-knights stood side-by-side, their weapons and armor coated in the dark crimson vitality of their enemies. Blades poised, eyes fixed, hearts steeled; they braced for the heaviest part of the night's battle that would decide the victors. An unnerving silence griped the air, dense with the tension of staring death in the face, knowing the question of who would live to see the daybreak would soon be answered by one's own blade…or another's.

They charged, mud-slathered boots on both sides grinding forward along the battle-torn ground. Neither side held back. Strength above all: that was the code he once had to live by, but not the only one. For long, he struggled to find the balance between that, and the contradicting method of peace his mother had instilled in him. Peace didn't exist in Noxus…not by a long shot. You couldn't walk a stone's throw without seeing some sort of fighting or exercising of one's superiority on the street, whether it was for survival, or just plain dominance. Needless to say, it was the very last place you would expect Ionians to live in. However, one fateful expedition for trade between the two nations set the gears in motion for what would eventually become an invasion of unimaginable horror and bloodshed.

'Strength above all'… That was **_all_** these pure-blooded Noxians lived by. Veterans experienced in primal combat, and zealots anxious to obtain the scars of their first real battle, stood in front of them. However, the mercenaries, as hard as their own lives have been, and despite the many battles they have fought together in just one year, have yet to genuinely comprehend what that phrase truly means… They weren't like him; they didn't grow up in Noxus. One can only train a hand and teach a mind to understand so much. The brutal city-state knew that well, and would force each citizen into its militant uniform at the coming of age. To be sent into battle was a privilege—an honor…a rite of passage. The leader of the knights looked to his sides, at his friends that had become his family, fighting with all their might against the forces of a nation literally bred for war. This was _their_ rite of passage.

Steel hammered on steel. Bones broke, and blood and sinew clashed as brotherhood struggled against prejudice. Their battalion was small, but when fighting on the side outnumbered by at least five to one, a skirmish can feel like eternity. Bated breath huffed in between strikes on both sides, the mercenary-knights holding their line as not to get surrounded. Covering strikes countered would-be lethal blows from Noxian weapons, the strength of bonds under a common ideal shining against the rampaging flurry of merciless brutality.

Gashes and bruises gave a forceful push against the invading soldiers, giving them a small respite at the cost of their enemies regrouping for a final wave. He rose to his feet once more, the panting quickly ceased by years of training and experience, refusing to let the enemy see him as the path of least resistance. Semi-long dark brown hair soaked in rainwater, a shining longsword in his hand, and cerulean eyes fixed in a steel gaze caught the attention of his comrades and the opposing forces. His mercenaries followed his example and picked themselves up, their weapons readied once more.

The Noxian soldiers exchanged questioned looks of uncertainty and exhaustion. Knowing what was expected of them, they rose, beating their weapons on their shields and armor, ready for the final skirmish. Again, the bloodthirsty soldiers charged. Instead of rushing head-on, the mercenary-knights held their ground, and waited for the engage.

A shriek pierced the clamor, coming from a voice he had known his whole life. The only voice that could distract him for even a moment. He snapped his head over his shoulder, toward the origin of the distress, somewhere in the blazing hamlet.

"Cerina!" he called out, senses trying to fix on a location.

The company of iron-blooded misfits looked at each other, very well-acquainted with the name from his stories.

"Go get her. We've got this," Garner insisted. The others followed with reassuring nods before turning back to the charging men, and loosened up their wrists with flourishing twirls of their respective weapons.

The half-blooded Noxian gave once last glance at his mercenary-knights, aware that the turn of circumstance could shift the result of battle. There was no hesitation in his steps. He couldn't stand the thought of leaving his friends alone in combat, but this was for his sister. This was for the person he had protected his whole life through almost non-stop fighting. Mud and rain splashed as he sprinted across fallen beams of ignited wood, and betwixt humble houses as they collapsed under the flames of oppression. Two Noxians that ran wide of the defending line attempted to cut him off by flanking him on both sides. It was the last mistake they would ever make.

A spear lurched for his head, and a sword sweeps for his torso. Reflexes and instinct kicked in. The spear was easy to dodge, an unwise hand guiding it toward a narrow target. Razor edges collided as he parried the sword upwards, into the spear, bringing both weapons high to leave their wielders wide open. Without having sacrificed velocity, a fluid motion tucked his sword underneath his elevated left arm, bringing it far back behind him, before unwinding it in a full circular strike in mid-step, passing between his enemies without a shift in his gaze. A glint of steel, equal in both finesse and brutality, sealed their fate with a fervorous strike.

A blood-curdling scream rung out again, much closer than the previous. A deep, almost manic laughter followed; a sure sign that time was running out. The swordsman further pushed his limits, running faster than he had ever before, and smashed through a large piece of fallen roofing that barred him from his goal. Embers flared up around him as he found himself standing in between a narrow alley, lit up by the roaring flames that engulfed the surrounding houses.

An unexpected sight unfolded itself before him—an image that would be seared into his mind forever. His motionless, blood-matted twin sister hung limp over the arm of a wolf-like monstrosity. Dark blue fur, soaked from the downpour, glistened around a hulking beast with fangs and red eyes of animalistic fury. It stared back at him, with what could be taken as a grin, as far as wolves can smile. What is that thing? How could this happen? His sister, his blood, his last remaining family, his best friend…in the clutches of a demon-eyed creature.

His heart pounded, and the iron grip on the hilt of his blade tightened, enough to vice all the rainwater out from between his fingers and the leather wrapping. The swordsman dashed in, but with a complexity of emotions and divided focus. He had to watch his strikes as not to accidentally cut his sister. The fight was decisive and swift. Clearly, this beast had seen battle before, swiping away the sword with strength beyond average human capacity. Despite the prowess, the mercenary-knight could detect the tell-tale sign of clunky form in its movements, almost as if it was not even used to using its own body. It didn't matter anymore, however. A savage blow from a clawed hand sent the swordsman to the ground. The strike was mostly from the palm, sparing him from a messy, fatal blow. With a fuzzy head and blurred vision, he began blacking out at the distorted sight of the monster as he tried lifting his head. He heard a grainy, unnatural voice mutter words barely audibly to him, only discerning the words "specimen" and "singed."

The world dissolved into a void, and everything went dark.


	2. Chapter 2: War has an Institute

**-  
Ch. 2**

 ** _War has an Institute_**

He slowly opens his eyes to the cracking campfire. It's still dark outside, not that much longer before the dawn arrives. With a deep breath, he sits upright and shakes off his weariness. When you're a lone swordsman, wandering the land without a heading, there is little time to rest in a world where man and myth alike lie in wait to strike at any moment.

The scar on his right cheekbone, just below his eye, stings with a phantom burn. Barely noticeable at first glance, it's a blemish that can be called minor when compared to most that follow the path of the blade. However, the true mark runs deep within, turned into a force that drives him.

A hand clad in a simple, black glove reaches for a red sheath, lifting it up to his lap. The simple design encases a not-so-simple sword of arcane power. Cerulean eyes close to finish where the dream of that fateful night left off, as it so often does. That moment when he woke up to find himself alone in the ashes of a hidden refuge, South of Noxus, near the mountains that boarder Icathia.

The memories play vividly in his mind; combing the aftermath to find the remains of Noxian soldiers, the Noxian-Ionians they slaughtered, and even his own comrades…but his sister remains missing. Eventually, he comes across the scorched ruins of the house he had thought his sister would be safe in. Nothing but lain waste, until a small glint catches his eye. He reaches over smoldering debris to recover a large, rectangular object, and brushes the soot off. It was the ornate chest their parents had charged them with protecting with their lives, though they were never told what rested inside. Previous attempts to open the strange box were futile, given the lack of a lock or any exposed hinges. As it turned out, the key was fire. It lied there, inside the very flames that took the remainder of his life away, reforging it into something that would intertwine and change the courses of many.

 **`*~\\-~vVv~-/~*`**

A wayward journey continues, yet no step anywhere further away from an evocative past. The night air is silent with a minor chill. Crickets chirping and the crunching of grass beneath his feet were the only things that filled the ambience for an hour's time. It makes it easy to pick out the direction of a sudden commotion just ahead, heralding itself with the sharp whinny of a horse, and shouts of conflict. Placid steps approach the scene, surveying the situation with sharp eyes.

A small caravan sits in the middle of surrounding horses that block its path. A short figure struggles in protest against several men who appear to be taking their time, savoring the fear and helplessness they seek to prey on.

 _"_ _Five against one. Never a dull day in Valoran,"_ the swordsman thinks to himself. "Hey…how about we make this a fair fight?" a calm, measured voice calls out.

The brigands turn around to see the interrupting silhouette approaching from the darkness of a starlit sky. A brief visage of worry turns into a wicked grin once more.

"You must be bad at math, dogmeat. Five is still greater than two," a large man with a devilish axe laughs.

"Well, one and a _half_ ," he tilts his head, looking past him, noting their victim's diminutive stature. "Either way, since you seem to like having the advantage of numbers in your favor, you're not going to complain when they start to dwindle, are you?"

"You dare mock Krakor in his own territory?!" a short fuse ignites.

"Anyone who talks in third-person like that mocks himself more than I ever could," he continues walking towards the highwaymen with an easy pace.

A longsword is drawn with a casual motion, flames taking life along the blade as it slips out of its sheathe. The fire illuminates the challenging silhouette, revealing a figure wearing red armor trimmed with gold, worn over the plain clothes of a simple traveler. The tattered ends of a long, light brown cape flutter slightly with each confident step.

Rugged faces of the cruel men change to a mixture of surprise and uncertainty. "It's _you_ … I've heard tales of you."

"This usually goes one of two ways. You come at me directly, I take you down, then at least two of your minions get overzealous and fall alongside you, sending the remainders scurrying. Or, you send all of your men ahead, facing me last with a foolish sense of pride, only to reach the same end. So…which will it be?"

Krakor grits his teeth in the frustration of the unnervingly composed swordsman before him. "Alright boys, go get 'em." The band of brigands turn back to look at him, with questions written on their faces. "Well…? It's just one man! Kill him!" he barks, sending the men on their way.

"The latter it is."

A curved blade belonging to a chipped scimitar rushes his way. It comes in raised up high, a common amateur's mistake. Flames streak through the thug's wolfskin vest with ease, and the man falls over himself. The second comes in with a battered quarterstaff, tipped with a row of violent blades, arching out of each end. A vicious swipe is countered by a swift blade of steel and fire, knocking the assaulter off balance as he raises his staff defensively, stumbling backwards. The arcane blade splits the worn weapon, and pairs the bandit with the ground in a flash.

Unwavering steps keep their pace, approaching the third man. A spiky flail hesitates before winding up and taking a nervous stride forward. In a fight-or-flight response, the chain comes hurdling towards the wayward swordsman. Heated steel sweeps fast, clipping the chain to send the better part of the weapon into a gloved hand. The bandit looks at the relinquished portion of his armament in awe, with his mouth agape, then at the passing mercenary. A follow-up strike sends the man spinning as his collapses, no longer a threat.

The traveler finally stops walking, face-to-face with a trembling man wielding a large dagger. Sharp, discerning eyes scan the foe. Showing his true colors, as cowardly as he is, doesn't change the facts. He's a murderer and a pillager just like the rest. He would continue to delve into his violent ways without hesitation, given the chance.

A chance… Something these men would not present others, but would rather take from them. Opportunity for change…something the mercenary-knight would gladly give…but the catch is that such a sentiment is a _choice_ that people must make for themselves. A choice that men like these have encountered many times before, but always elected the path of destruction.

If they are so inclined to spread death no matter what, then it only seems fair they should suffer the same sentence that they deal unto others. To reap what they sew. That is the brand of justice he deals—a self-inflicted judgment brought to them by their own course of action, sealed by steel and flame. Perhaps it is not the kind of justice all would agree with, but it's one that yields results with a decisive certainty.

Still quaking, the man slowly raises the knife in an aggressive stance. The skilled swordsman continues to stare at him, waiting patiently. Decision time.

A shaky battle cry lets out, only to be cut short. The spiked ball hurls into the brigand's gut with solid impact, knocking the wind out of him with a painful set of sharp prods. An upward strike collides with the borrowed sphere, causing it to soar upward as the blade follows through, scraping the forehead of the enemy. The man reels backwards with the force, and the knight brushes past him, toward his final opponent. A steel orb descends back into the grimacing face of its target, a large smoldering gash glowing a bright orange on the side, finishing him off with a loud thud.

"How is that math holding up?" the fiery bladesman asks plainly.

The brute doesn't reply. Rather, he stares back, fury in his very blood. Scars over his bare chest and built frame tell of reckless battle and bloodshed. He's a rampaging berserker, when the mood strikes him. All it takes is a nudge or two, and right now, he's had more than his fill.

An unfazed swordsman takes his stance, gripping his weapon with both hands, the fire intensifying. He would meet his foe at full-force, as a testament to everything he stands for, and everything he fights against.

The ringleader rushes his towering stature at the lone mercenary-knight, a huge, vicious axe swinging downward over his shoulder. The wanderer does what every person with even minimum combat experience considers to be a fool's death-wish. He slashes forward, meeting the greataxe head-on.

Flames dance passionately in the reflection of the calm waters of his cerulean eyes; a perfect representation of the balance between the contradicting Noxian and Ionian principles he embodies.

Metal grinds audibly as the two push their might into the clashing armaments; rage-endowed strength against relentless willpower.

" **I WILL CRUSH YOUR BONES!** " the titan bellows in a murderous tone, showing his raw nature.

"Many have tried… ** _let's see who breaks first!_** " fervor shows itself in his voice, the blade flaring up even further.

With a blaze of force, the flaming sword cleaves through the opposing razor edge, sundering it right through the middle, where the metal becomes thickest. The stroke cuts clean, through the axe-head and its wielder, bringing the conflict to a conclusion.

A quick twirl, and the blade is returned to its sheathe. He turns his sights to the victim, spotting a violet hood taking cover under the coach of his caravan.

"You can come out now."

"Is-Is it over…?" a rough voice quakes out. A purple, troll-like figure emerges from hiding to see the smoldering aftermath. "Wow…I haven't seen destruction like that since I worked at the Institute."

"Institute?"

"The Institute of War. You know…the famous organization that stopped the Rune Wars and settles political scuffles in a controlled manner? Come on—it's known everywhere!" the odd creature shouts.

"Yeah, I've heard of it. Can't say I've looked much into it, however."

"Hm…" the troll thinks, rubbing his chin. "Well, if you want, you can see it for yourself. I happen to be on my way there now for one last shipment," he thumbs over his shoulder, toward the tarped cargo of his vehicle.

"Is that why those men were after you? You have some precious cargo purchased by some big-time clients?"

"Ack—! No! I mean, maybe! Look, I'm going. You wanna ride or not?"

The mercenary-knight crosses his arms and sighs, looking at the orange sky of a rising sun peeking over the horizon. For so long, his search has yielded no results. No direction to take, relying on mere chance to find something that could lead him to the monster that took his sister.

"Sure. I'm running out of places I haven't been to, anyway.

The short merchant waddles back over onto the seat of his wagon, and the swordsman follows.

"So…what's your name, anyway?" the strange, hooded salesman asks.

"Ephrial. Yours?"

"Oh, I'm just a Manbacionian making one last stop before home. Pay me no mind," a nervousness in his voice.

"A…'Manbacionian', you said…?"

"Bob! Just call me Bob," he grumbles.

Ephrial turns his gaze back towards the sunrise, dismissing the oddity as a grumpy, but harmless creature that conceals his kindness beneath a veil of abrasiveness. Discerning a person's character is a trait he has long mastered through a rough career of traveling as a mercenary. A skill developed to the point that unsettles people, should he read them like an open book aloud after just meeting them.

That high-powered perception may prove to be amidst his most valuable assets in the trials yet to come. The tests that are sought by many, but open to few, in a war-ceasing power known as the League of Legends.


	3. Chapter 3: Armies of Magic and Might

**-  
Ch. 3**

 ** _Armies of Magic and Might_**

Daylight shines brightly from above, illuminating the bright stones of the entrance. Before him stands an expertly crafted fortress-like temple, heavily decorated in large, celebratory banners. The area teems with people as they flock from all sides, gathering into their groups, and heading inside the welcoming structure.

Ephrial nods thankfully at Bob before the merchant whips the reigns, setting off and disappearing into the crowds. The swordsman looks around him at the wide audience of people that have traveled far in hopes to get a good seat at the spectacle known by all of Runeterra. Tilting his chin upward at the large doors that await him, he begins ascending the tall steps that lead into the Institute's Visitor Center.

The inside is already pushing capacity limits, and by the sudden wave of roaring cheers, the event has just begun. Slipping through the close-knit horde of spectators, he nimbly works his way closer to a better view, step by step. Along the way, he hears the nearby people mention the same names multiple times. Terms such as "flash" and "tower" are also brought up repeatedly.

Throughout the constant weaving between the multitudes of people, he comes across myriad enchanted displays of various terrains and angles. The most active parts are dense with enthusiastic followers watching the images screened on sundry slabs of crystal. Sounds of battle and ferocity emit from each of them, creating an arena-esque atmosphere. A female voice loudly rises above all others, explaining the major highlights and occurrences in short phrases—an announcer of some fashion.

He has heard tales of the infamous League of Legends. An organized battlefield where the strongest warriors from all corners of the land gather to do battle in order to settle political matters of importance. A place where many come to test their prowess, or to claim rights and property for their nations. Though many resent the Institute's very existence, not even the most powerful kingdoms have been able to contest the foundation's immense influence.

Walking circles, competing with excited crowds for a better view, Ephrial grows weary of wandering around for no results.

"This is getting nowhere," he mutters.

Approaching the deepest part of the magic-infused stadium, he sees a very large ring where the majority of people have clustered around. Barely able to see past the swarm, he notices the setting to be a large pit, noting that many of the onlooking crowd's gazes tilt downward the closer they are to the attraction.

Making his way through, he realizes he can only get so far before the assembly becomes impassible. He spies a nearby pillar with a hole in the side, most likely a slot to hold a special banner for specific events. Weaving past rows of fanatics, he reaches the column with an idea. Taking the sheathe of his blade off of his belt, he jumps up and wedges the tip of it into the opening. Ephrial hangs just off the ground by the support of the unyielding steel covering his blade; a snug fit.

With swift athleticism, he kicks off the pillar and swings his body upward, pulling himself onto the newly-installed protrusion. He then settles down on the improvised seating, making himself comfortable with his back pressed against the furnished marble, resting his legs on the crimson casing.

"Whoa… What's that thing made of and where can I get one?" a witnessing member of the sea of people remarks, noting the weapon's sturdiness.

Keen eyes can now observe the entire show with their new vantage point. The magical display is the largest, and the most popular, as it functions like a hologram. It covers the entire arena at once, giving spectators a chance to see everything in such detail, without compromise. Smaller sheets of carved crystal surround the ring to show close-ups of the livelier scenes. He observes a large field of three long paths two bases, and a jungle divided by a gentle river. Three towers stand in intervals along each road, barring the way to either base. A banner above the holographic projection reads:

 **SEASON OPENING EVENT: SUMMONER'S RIFT EXHIBITION MATCH!**

Questions run through Ephrial's mind as he observes the battle with a scrutinizing gaze, learning what he can. Exhibition Match? Summoner's rift? Who are these people and what are they fighting for…?

The crowd flares up with a thunderous roar. A fight in the Northernmost lane is sprung, and cheers call out in excitement. The swordsman traces the source of the attention to two contestants. One, a large monkey wielding a magic, size-alternating staff. The other, a white-haired woman in tattered armor. Ephrial is struck with a sudden feeling of familiarity. There's no way he could forget an encounter with a warrior that possesses such ferocity…and a blade, even in its broken state, that dwarves many.

Now filled with a renewed sense of interest, he carefully watches the warrior battle a foe with an odd, but refined sense of agility and skill. That form…the confliction in her very strikes…it's all there just like before, but not as lacking in spirit this time. Yet, there it remains; that mysterious smoldering in her eyes.

A staff's feint jab from an illusionary copy provides an attempt for a flank from behind. She already sensed it coming. A quick turn followed by a front flip in the air, and the sharp edge of a rune-engraved sword crashes down onto her opponent. The force sends the monkey bouncing off the ground before he fades away in a mystical light and vanishes completely.

The disembodied voice calls out the words " **First Blood** ," creating an uproar within the audience. Cheers ring out, calling her name over and over. Ephrial can only surmise she has been a crowd favorite, and must have been fighting in the League for some time now. But why? What is her stake in this?

Piquing with abundant curiosity at the unfolding presentation, he silently observes the entire match. A quick-learner, he sorts out the goals, tactics, and terms used in the highly-acclaimed sporting event. Before long, he begins mixing his own cunning strategies in mind. Every step taken and every objective secured is another lesson learned, paying special attention to the fearless swordswoman.

The final skirmish is set. Both teams of valiant and mysterious warriors leap into battle, the very sparks of their conflict setting fire to the energy in the room. Swift strikes and brutal finesse from both sides display a scene that gives the understanding as to why this is called the 'League of _Legends_.' It's a decisive turnout; the team with the early lead works their way through the opposing obstacles, heading for a giant crystal of massive stored power.

The audience is clearly divided as half of the crowd is either applauding, or sinking in disappointment. Standing triumphantly with the wear of battle on their attire and weapons, the winning team watches the massive structure explode, bringing the match to a conclusion. The magical stones that illuminate the observatory flood the stadium in blue, and once more, the charismatic voice thunders through the building.

 **"** **Victory!"**


	4. Chapter 4: Know Your enemy

**-  
Ch. 4**

 ** _Know Your Enemy_**

Another sprint up the large steps, and a bound over to a short wall lands him into cover. He peeks from behind the continuing flight of stairs, spotting two sentinels chatting the boredom of a late shift away.

Only two guards? That can't be right… Surely the Institute takes its security more seriously. Or perhaps, the champions that dwell within their walls _are_ their security, out of some agreement. Either that, or not many people are crazy enough to sneak into a building of powerful mages that have bent even the most ferocious creatures to their will.

An opening presents itself, and the deft swordsman takes it, racing up the flat railing of the stairs. After summiting countless steps, he arrives at the grand entrance. Lavish stone and marble cover the floor and pillars in an ornate gloss, with luminescent bands of light decorating the etched patterns that border the entirety of the space. Footsteps echo just ahead. The nimble swordsman lunges for a column, staying out of sight. Moving swiftly and carefully, he infiltrates deeper and deeper into the structure.

 _"_ _These must all be Summoners…"_ Ephrial thinks to himself, noting that everyone he has passed by is wearing the same purple robe.

He comes across a group of three members of the arcane foundation, two of them instructing one that appears to be new, given the confused look on his face. Keeping close to the shadows, he listens in.

"Oh, before I forget, you'll also want to learn a little about who you'll be operating with. You can brush up on your champions in the library. The stairs are across the mess hall," one of the hooded figures points out before departing from the newbie alongside the other.

"Great. Th-thanks," a nervous voice waves the two off. "Phew…this place is **massive**. I'm going to get lost a few times for certai—!" he falters, falling to the floor with a thud.

"Sorry. I'm going to need to borrow this," the infiltrator says to the unconscious magician as he drags him out of sight.

Ephrial steps out into the wide halls once more, shrouded in the simple, purple garment used by the Institute's denizens. Following the previous Summoner's direction, he heads toward the stairs.

His pursuit leads him to a quiet room crowded in bookshelves and tables covered in various scrolls. Fortunately, no one else is around at this late hour, and Ephrial helps himself to the wellspring of knowledge, reading the basic information on each of the League's champions. He suspects the more detailed reports are located within a far more secure place, but these will have to do. After having already spectated several battles, the inclusion of a quick background check, list of known capabilities, and statement of allegiance or aspiration becomes more than enough for him.

The hours roll by as the mercenary-knight educates himself on the League's affiliations, as well as the men and women who run it. Some are rather straightforward, and others remain shrouded in mystery, even to the Institute itself. Still, every bit helps when preparing to face threats no one could have imagined existed before witnessing it with their own eyes. In this way, he'll have more preparation to fight than most who have walked through the Summoner's Rift for their first time.

He comes across the final two sections of the database, sorted by nation. The alphabetical order in which the files were once held is slightly askew due to common laziness. Unfastening the one labeled for 'Noxus', he gathers inside information on the city-state's roster, studying each page attentively, and arming himself with every ounce of knowledge to be had. With only several more to go through, he picks up the next one, labeled with a familiar name. The sleuthing adventurer opens the parchment and reads through the summarization of the subject's past, just like all the others.

A section on her track record has him thinking they might have mixed another person's papers with those in this one, reading on the part she played in the bloodbath that was the invasion of Ionia. With the abruptness of an incomplete timeline, it jumps to her joining the League, noting that her endeavor is to stop the war and bloodshed Noxus has imposed.

The 'Spirit of Noxus', who had obeyed orders of slaughter without question or hesitation, now seeks to redeem herself for her violent ways. Her allegiance is still listed as Noxus, but her adversaries are almost strictly from the same nation. A devoted soldier turning against her own beloved nation… There is only one reason such a notable warrior would do such a thing: The nation is under attack from the inside, and she seeks to preserve it. Speculation, perhaps, but based on a personal witness to the change in the Noxian way. Having lived there himself underneath the flawed creed of a hypocritical city-state, he finds himself all too acquainted with how the strings of corruption are played. A rather specific conjecture, but the only possible conclusion that holds. After all, he too was a victim of the wolves that lie within the gates of Noxus.

With due care, Ephrial closes the parchment. He had not planned on entering the League for political means, much less to test his own might. Up to this point, his interest has lied only with a possible way to find his sister's murderer. However, with inspiration by the infamous Exile's turnaround, perhaps maybe…just maybe…they could succeed in ending the Noxian oppression and imperialism. The League is where even one voice, if strong enough to act on it, can make a difference. In this way, although far too late for it to carry its entire original meaning, he could still form a place where his sister could have lived in peace. A place where she _deserved_ to live in.

His night of research is almost over. With only one last pile of champion files to read through, a fingerless glove reaches for the bundle of parchment. Uncovered from the mountain of paper preceding it, the name of the final city-state flickers in the candlelight:

 **'** **Zaun.'**


	5. Chapter 5: Blazing Judgement

**-  
Ch. 5**

 ** _Blazing Judgment_**

Moonlight peers down through a large skylight in the ceiling, the only source of light in an otherwise unilluminated room. Two uneasy Summoners in heavily decorated attire watch as a figure in an entry-level robe advances toward the center of the chamber with measured steps.

"What is the meaning of this? What urgency has required you to call us at this late hour, Summoner?" the woman questions, impatiently.

"Apologies," an even tone starts. "I thought it would be better if we do this in person." Raising his voice slightly, as if reaching out, he calls, " ** _All_** of us."

Taken aback by such a boldly direct approach, the pair of Summoners exchange a look of perplexity. A silent moment passes, and a reluctant shadow reveals itself, taking its place next to the others.

An aging man greets the third figure with a slight nod, and then turns to the caller of the assembly. "Very well. Now tell us…who are you?"

A hand unravels the rope on his borrowed cloak and pulls it outward, letting it drop onto the polished floor. "One who seeks entry to your League."

The Summoners inspect the intruder with a scrutinizing gaze. His armor, though scratched from battle, is well-maintained. A long, tattered cape has seen better days, telling stories through its lacerations of the many evaded strikes intended to take his life. A sheathe hangs on his left hip, cherry red, and gilded with gold, just like his armor. Their eyes meet his, cerulean oceans sharp with experience and strength, but not piercing with aggression.

"Ephrial, 'The Blazing Swordsman'. Your name travels far. Many villages owe you a great debt," the Summoner speaks again.

"They don't owe me anything. Neither do you. However, I've come to you face-to-face on the matter of my participation in this establishment."

"It is already unpropitious enough that you've somehow managed to break your way into the inner sanctum of our Institute, and tricked us into coming here personally. Are you sure this is the best course in which you should be requesting entry?" the woman asks.

"I'm afraid I must _insist_ , Miss Lessa Carin."

The Summoner's face flinches with surprise at his knowledge of her identity.

"After all, it should only be fair to meet firsthand with those who would require access to one's very mind in exchange to take part in their arena," the swordsman follows up.

"So you know what is required of you. Good. Then, are you prepared?" the aging man looks upon the challenger with a sense of irked intrigue.

"Do as you will, Senior Summoner Ezekiel Montrose," Ephrial uses the full title and name of the mage, making clear his knowledge of to whom he speaks.

"Very well. Since you insist on doing things in a… _somewhat_ formal way, we shall conduct this as we usually would. Lessa?" Montrose looks at his fellow Summoner.

"Is this really the kind of conduct the Institute has grown to tolerate?" Carin gives the swordsman a cold glance before turning to her fellow mage.

"Now, now… This brand of… _initiative_ is what the League is all about, is it not? Assertive ambition, willing to press boundaries for a cause worth fighting for," he sizes up the intruder.

With a reluctant, yet understanding nod, the woman vanishes in a glint of magic. Ezekiel extends a hand, directing toward the end of the room.

"Thank you, Summoner Montrose. Summoner Grieve," he includes the silent, scowling Senior Summoner that he previously called out of hiding.

Measured steps walk toward the designated direction, approaching massive double doors, with an inscription artfully carved above. _"The truest opponent lies within."_

"Tell me about it," Ephrial speaks to himself, a remark on the most important lessons in his life.

With one outstretched hand, he opens the chamber without missing a stride. A few steps in the room, and he feels a sudden change in the very atmosphere. The air inside becomes very heavy, and his surroundings begin to morph. The magic is invasive, but his burning will persists. Fighting back, the images turn phantasmic, surrounding him in images transparent enough to see through, but visible enough for every detail. With his right hand over the hilt of his blade, the swordsman treads on with wary anxiousness as his environment begins growing familiar.

He sees an image of his younger self in Noxus, fleeing the city-state in the dead of night with his sister. Shadows and cunning covered their escape after the murder of their parents—a murder done by Noxians that saw any Ionian relations to be only weakness.

The images flash forward to a slightly older Ephrial, returning to the settlement of Noxian-Ionian refugees with a group of allies, only to rush into battle against the soldiers from his former nation that razed his village.

It swiftly becomes clear to him. This is not a test of physical might, but of mind. He feels the magic tugging at his senses, yearning to drag him deeper into the spell of illusion around him, but he resists enough to see through the veil, if only barely. Such was the benefit of being half Noxian and half Ionian, raised in the ways of both. Strength of body, strength of mind – force of hand, force of will. Other than that, his blood has been nothing but a curse to him.

Ephrial's eyes remain fixed forward as he walks on, his slow pace unfazed. The heat of the flames around him intensify, and the scar on his cheek flares up with it. He hears the scream of a girl in horror; the same girl's agony that echoes in his mind each day. He tightens his grip on the hilt of his sheathed blade as he once again sees his blood-covered sister, lifeless in the clutches of a demon-eyed werewolf.

Teeth clench. The Noxian inside of him says to cleave the phantom in two. The Ionian in him says not this way. It's an internal struggle between the two conflicting principles of his upbringing. However, he had already made his mind up long ago. If he is to slay the feral monster, he would do it with a heart of justice, not selfish revenge. To kill him out of revenge, and nothing more, would take the meaning out of his long journey; both the past, and what is yet to come.

A firm grip releases the sword, and his jaw relaxes. He won't lose himself to a mere phantom. If he did, how could he handle the real thing? If he loses to revenge, he loses himself.

The only solid footsteps in the room remain unwavering as he walks through the ghost of his enemy, eye-to-eye, dissipating the image into mist and then nothingness. A grizzly voice echoes, barely understandable as it was back then, only hearing "Singed" and "specimens."

Once again, the vision changes, this time to Ephrial awakening to an unnerving silence. In his futile search to find his sister's remains, he instead uncovers a long box enveloped in runes, unscorched by the flames. From a different perspective, he witnesses himself pull out a weapon; the blade a cherry red, and the edges trimmed widely in gold. A hand-and-a-half sword, slightly larger than normal—perfect versatility for his style.

The scene speeds forward in time. He sees a friend and second mentor disappear into the company of Noxian soldiers lead by the infamous Darius. The Ionian sergeant he had aided from a previous encounter with such militants had embarked on a journey toward Demacia, seeking their aid in the expected invasion of his homeland. Throughout their short time together, he helped Ephrial further hone his skills with his blade, giving him the fighting perspective of his Ionian half. Thus, he completed his mastery of the sword a second time, once for each side of his heritage. That much improved skill and strength freed himself from the onslaught, but the half-blooded swordsman was forced to hastily retreat. Uncertain of his fate, yet counted as another loss, he would never forget the name 'Zelos'.

The ethereal surroundings change yet again, painting itself vividly as ever. He finds himself in a large, open field, watching his ghost fight alongside a white-haired girl against an abnormally huge pack of dire wolves. Soon, the sources of fierce snarling and howling all laid silent in each other's blood. Both warriors, covered in mild wounds, hunch over their respective swords, panting heavily.

While catching their breath, Ephrial observes his acquaintance, impressed with her prowess. She couldn't be much younger than him. In the grasp of a rune-imprinted glove is a broken blade, still large enough that he would never suspect such a slender girl as herself could lift such a thing if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. Something was off, however. She had great technique, but her strikes lack spirit. It's a feeling oddly familiar to him. Not exactly the same, but similar enough.

"You okay?" Ephrial's phantom asks.

She looks at him, almost as if it were the first time anyone had bothered to ask her such a question.

"I am a soldier of Noxus! Of course I'm okay," surprise quickly turns to bitterness as she rises upright. The slightest tell-tale sign shows that her own words had stung her.

"I can certainly see that," noting the tarnishing bits of Noxian armor she wears. "However, I didn't mean physically."

She doesn't respond. Instead, she turns her head to the see of dead wolves. As if seeing an image far more unpleasant than that around them, she recoils, shutting her eyes and turning her head away. The gauntlet that wraps around her sword vices its grip.

"Only the strong survive…" she audibly mutters through gritting teeth.

"I never did see that as a reason to let someone die or fight alone. Nor as a reason to butcher people just because they are seen as weak. I get how strength, or lack thereof, can determine if someone dies…but I don't believe it should determine if someone **_has_** to die. Strength has to have a purpose other than death, wouldn't you agree?"

She opens eyes of determination and begins stepping away to resume her travels.

"I believe Noxus has enough bloodthirsty wolves within its gate," he finishes, sheathing his blade.

She replies barely within earshot, perhaps mostly talking to herself, "That makes two of us."

Both wanderers go on their way, in directions that were only physically opposite.

The current Ephrial steps through the last memory, half-smiling in reminiscence. He didn't know the girl he had helped was Riven, the poster child of Noxus, and terror of the Ionian invasion that occurred just after the destruction of his village. Her past doesn't matter to him. People can change, some faster than others. All that matters to him is where a person's heart lies in the present.

Although he may be among the first to admit there are better ways to manage society, Ephrial can agree that determining one's place through strength, regardless of many other factors, to be fair and not inherently evil. It just has to be without arrogance. Without prejudice. Punish those responsible and save a nation from itself…that's justice he can believe in. An endeavor he will gladly lend his strength for, especially with perhaps the only honorable Noxian left. He sees through the Exile's dark past, and aims for a bright future.

"Had your fill of entertainment?" his footsteps come to a halt.

"Intriguing," Lessa huffs, a strain from contesting a will of fire. "You must realize that aiding someone with such a history would severely perturb any possible relations with your Ionian half."

"I'm used to a nation wanting me dead. A few more foes won't hurt."

"The pursuit of your sister's murderer is what brought you here in the first place. That may make the Summoners question your true intent," she points out.

"You need not worry. My path is clear, and I will not stray from it. However…if I should find the one known as 'Warwick' along the way…then I hope you have a good spot for a throw rug," he says, gravely.

"…I see. Now then…" with a stoic glare, she presses the traditional question asked to all who seek admittance to the League. "How does it feel, exposing your mind?"

"Indifferent. Nothing's changed. Although…I do find it odd that such an inquiry would be imposed upon others by those who keep their own records hidden away in a special vault sealed by magic…"

The Summoner has had enough, and departs from him in the same fashion as from the previous room, leaving the swordsman alone in the Chamber of Reflection.

"Fighting against two nations at once while fighting **_for_** them," he speaks to himself, drawing his sword. "I guess that's how it has to be. If you're going to reforge something…"

He raises the blade to his face. Flames dance lively along the blade in response to his rising spirit.

"Things have to heat up."


	6. Chapter 6: Disconnected

**-  
Chapter 6**

 ** _Disconnected_**

A straight path down the middle lane. Just a few obstacles, and it will be game, set, match. Speedy steps rush onward, a seemingly clear road for the time being.

"Almost a dozen matches already, and they have yet to put me in one with her… Too many exhibition games in this 'pre-season' of theirs," the Blazing Swordsman mutters. "Halfway there…"

The unmistakable silhouette of another bladesman approaches him, head-on with a green sword poised in an ancient style, charging with impressive speed.

"I see him," Ephrial says aloud to the voice linked to his mind, the sword in his grip flaring up.

In a flash, his opponent disappears right before him. The strike is swift, reappearing in a blur faster than most can comprehend. A loud clash, and flames swirl on impact.

"Not this time," eyes of determination gaze into the green lenses staring back at him, locked in conflict. Through careful study from the sidelines, and anticipation through instinct, a fiery blade holds at a defensive angle, covering the side of collision.

The two swordsmen push each other away from their blade-lock, reforming their stances in a brief moment before exchanging blinding strikes, sending sparks flying violently around them. A dazzling display of the unique Wuju and Noxian-Ionian arts create an intense scene of discipline and speed, each decisive strike capable of bringing the skirmish to a sudden halt.

Sharp eyes watch for the pattern, carefully discerning each swipe while anticipating the next. _"There it is; the double-strike again,"_ a tactical mind parries a ringed blade once more. _"Now!"_

A counterstrike swings at an opening. Ephrial feels the lack of connection in his maneuver as hot steel swipes through a mirage. That familiar rush of wind and movement breezes by him, telling where the next attack will come from. Instead of fighting the momentum of his force to reposition his blade defensively, he follows through with it, embracing the full motion, bringing it all the way around himself. Signature swords bolt at each other and clash again. The absence of hesitation in his reflexes ward off the blow, just barely, and the sheer force knocks both of the swordsmen off of their feet.

Well-crafted skills roll along the ground with the repulsion, recovering themselves with seamless fluidity. The two reform their stances, respective to their individual masteries.

"Did you miss it?" a grin appears on the short-beard of Master Yi.

 _"_ _He definitely has speed on his side. Time for a change of plan."_ Focus on priority ignores the taunt directed at the new nick in his shoulderplate, where the reduced strike was deflected into. _"No, save that one for later…"_ the mercenary-knight tells the disembodied company in his head.

The blanket of flames on the gilded blade begins to intensify, dancing wildly as they grow. Specially-made eyewear automatically focuses with a subtle, high-pitch grinding of mechanisms. With precision in their very steps, they rush toward each other, pressing for the offense.

A distant slash cuts through air, releasing a bolt of bright flames forward, aiming low. The unconventional strike does its work, colliding with the ground before Yi's feet, forcing him to make a hasty leap over the twisting burst of fire. Perfect.

Careful analysis of Master Yi's Wuju style surmises that, above all things, it requires solid grounding to perform. Both his speed and resistance to movement-impairing magic are specifically founded on using the ground to forcefully propel his motions. Focus may be the key to precision and skill, but all martial arts yield to the laws of physics at one point or another.

Ephrial seizes the opportunity, dashing in with a charged blade of steel and fervor. A powerful overhead cleave lands onto the evasive swordmaster, exploding on impact into an outward scorching blaze. The inferno of embers and smoke clears out, along with the last bit of fading light taking his opponent away.

" ** _Wuju_** like some ice for that burn?" the remaining swordsman straightens himself. A hollow-sounding puff of air, and a tiny, short-lived whistle rings off from the side, and a sudden pain pricks into his neck. With a sharp string, a sensory-nullifying toxin enters his body, causing his vision to go completely dark. "Hng—!"

Honed instincts through experience kick in, ducking low and rolling toward the sound of continuing puffs and whistles. A barrier of heat and flames fend off the last few projectiles with a sweeping blade, clearing the way for a swift kick to send the Swift Scout flying into the nearby wall of plantation. With the sound of a stifled explosion, and a small dust cloud of purple spores peering over the tall grass, the stealthy strikes cease.

A free hand removes the dart and rubs his eyes. "Jeez…that really **_is_** annoying," his vision begins coming back, blurry at first.

Shaking the residual effects off, he resumes toward his destination. The advantage belongs to his team, and the path to victory is open. It's time to finish the hour-long fight.

 _"_ _Nearly there,"_ the division between stone and dirt coming into view.

Sturdy steps alter their path in quick response to an alert ringing in his mind in the form of a pinging sound. The alarm is loud, indicating that the unseen threat is very close.

A thunderous roar cracks through the air and catapults into the ground in front of him, ripping the very earth below a beastly sight of rage and muscle.

"This is about what I did to your boomerang, isn't it…?" Ephrial looks up at the hulking yordle of prehistoric origin.

Angry eyes stare down at him as a deep growl rumbles through large fangs. A giant fist begins scooping up a chunk of the ground by its side, pulling out a boulder of dense rock from the torn soil.

Ephrial slowly lifts a hand to his double-belt, carefully grabbing a miniature purple object. _"Wait for it, Summoner…"_

Bad temperament can wait no longer, and lurches forward on three limbs, ball of earth in-hand. The swordsman runs directly at him, holding nothing back. Genetic rage launches the colossal rock straight towards the mercenary. Its sheer size creates a shadow over him, and eclipses Ephrial's view of his opponent as it approaches with lethal velocity. Close enough for his plan, he jumps toward the mass.

 _"_ _Do it!"_ mental communication reaches to a remote location.

The view of the death boulder flashes back to one of a furious titan once more, much closer now. The Blazing Swordsman hurls an optic device into the agape jaws of the creature. As it reaches its target, the vision ward magically expands, holding Gnar's mouth wide open. Ephrial uses the height advantage given to him by the Summoner Spell to land on the enemy's shoulder, using it to springboard himself further and leap out of the way of a reaching grasp.

Powerful teeth crack down on the ward, crushing the crystal, and dousing the revealing light emitting from it as the beast turns around. A bolt of flame greets the Missing Link's face, dazing its target as he reels from the fiery impact. He is further enraged beyond any reason now, but still slow—too far to catch up now.

The end is in sight; a massive crystal rotating within a thin, magical barrier. Ephrial looks to his sides, his allies approaching the target from their own skirmishes. Time is still a factor, but victory appears certain. The team nears the objective from different angles, weapons poised and ready to seize the day's match. Yet, something appears out of place…

The spinning of the enemy's nexus accelerates, and the blue glow becomes a brilliant red. The band of designated allies charge on, but with perplexed looks on their faces. A faint humming slowly rises, then crescendos as the structure explodes into a white light, knocking everyone backwards into the stone floor with a powerful shockwave.

Ephrial raises his head to the sight of shattered crystal peppering the ground, and smoke rising off a destroyed structure. Allies and opponents alike rise to their feet in a cease-fire, scanning at their surroundings in confusion. The luminescent crystals and patterns that decorate the base grow dim and lifeless.

"What's going on, Summoner? …Summoner?" Ephrial asks to thin air, with no response. He looks at the other champions, seemingly in the same disconnected state by the look on their faces.

Severed connections leave the combatants in an odd, almost unnatural silence. The cracks in the stone floor of the base suddenly begin to illuminate brightly. His vision of the surrounding area whites out again, and Ephrial feels himself floating through air as if he had just been thrown afar. The sensation comes to an abrupt halt, and the swordsman lands hard on his feet, similar to being summoned, but more forceful.

He looks at his new environment; the Institute in chaos. Purple-clad men and women run around the courtyard and open crosswalks on the second floor. Clamor and distinct sounds of destructive magic at work fill the air. Walls, railings, and flooring smolder and crumble before a crowd of shadowy figures shrouded in an aura as dark as a starless night sky.

A robed creature lurches at him from the side, only to fall to a bisecting slice.

He looks at his fallen foe, seeing a familiar presence. "Minions…?" Ephrial surveys the unprecedented situation. _"No…these_ _ **were**_ _minions at some point. Now they're something else entirely…"_ gazing at their level of destruction.

Guards and brave high-tier summoners rush to the scene, blasting away at the invaders. Leading them, a figure on wings, clad in golden armor, swipes away clusters of the marauders with a venerable blade, clearing a path for the retreating inhabitants of the League's grounds.

A piercing shriek cuts the air. Eyes hidden behind a helmet turn to see a female summoner about to be crushed by a falling slab of concrete. With a simple extension of the angel's arm, a transparent barrier of warm gold surrounds the summoner, and the debris break harmlessly around her. Another gesture of the Judicator's arm bathes the bystander in a brief flash of holy light, allowing the woman to rise from a formerly-wounded ankle and run for safety.

An impressive sight. Nothing less than he would expect from one of the League's most powerful champions. She would have to be, if the Institute's founder and High Councilor, Reginald Ashram himself, chose her to be head of security to protect the summoners and contestants alike, not to mention to serve as his bodyguard.

With a loud crash, a vastly empowered and deformed siege minion bursts through a wall. A handful of fleeing summoners fly backward, landing prone at the mercy of a large barrel pointing right at them. Spiked wheels squeak closer, and the sounds of tumbling and clicking herald ammunition locking in place.

Two fiery bursts of fervor streak across the machine, crippling its movement; gears grinding to a messy stop. The warriors glance at each other's weapons, noting a comparison. Talk can wait, however, and they blaze into action—Ephrial getting up close, and Kayle keeping a tactical distance. Strike after strike, slash after slash, nimble cutting edges dismantle the giant siege weapon into a burning pillar of fire. Its operator, however, responds to no pain and looks on with emotionless, lifeless eyes through the piercing flames. Gears rumble again, and the large barrel rises to point just above the doorway of escape for those fleeing.

A quick exchange of looks, and they know what they have to do. Ephrial hurls his blade, spinning into the opening of the weapon, the metal carving itself stuck firmly inside the circumference. He swiftly ascends the structure, and the Judicator lets out a blast of holy might directly at the hilt of the wedged sword. The impact sends it shredding through, and the mercenary-knight runs along the pipe as his arcane blade glides through the steel below him, splitting the tube with a trail of molten metal. He jumps at the sound and vibrations of a rupture underneath his feet—the indestructible weapon landing a direct blow to the cannon's firing mechanism. A swift hand catches the soaring hilt as it pierces through the machine and its enchanted driver. He twists himself around in the air, and crashes the razor edge down along the disarmed vehicle to finish it off for good.

The burning remains of the foe collapses in the resulting explosion, smoke and embers rising from the pile. Ephrial wearily rises to a knee, using his sword to support him as his other hand holds injured ribs. A hard landing into a pile of jagged rocks does the mercenary-knight no favors after already pushing himself through encounters with powerful figures in the Rift. An abrupt light washes over him, and he begins feeling a surge of rejuvenation. Cerulean eyes look up to see the armor-clad figure hovering above the ruined ground in front of him.

"On your feet!" a stern voice commands behind a concealing helmet. "This affliction cannot be allowed to spread further."

Ephrial rises. "What have you in mind?" sensing a plan of action in the certainty of her voice.

"Come. We shall defend the Master Nexus."

With a signaling gesture of her hand, the guards she roared in with take formation behind her. Raising her blade and pointing it toward the path ahead, radiant wings propel her as she leads her unit with assertive grace.

"Forward!"


	7. Chapter 7: Loss Prevention

**-  
Chapter 7**

 ** _Loss Prevention_**

 _"…_ _an…you…r….me?"_ a disembodied echo struggles to make a connection.

A small troop of footsteps march speedily down a dark corridor that has remained a well-kept secret until now. Torches mystically ignite themselves as they travel the musty passageway, and each stride the defenders take brings them closer to large, stone doors with runes etched into them, just ahead.

The ringing in his ears dies down, and the voice is whole again. _"Can you hear me, Champion?"_

"A summoner?" Ephrial glances at the five other champions of the League around himself, seemingly engaging with guests of their own diving into their minds. _"Yeah, I hear you. What exactly is going on?"_

 _"_ _I don't know. I've just been instructed to try to make contact with any champion still in the Institute."_

"Explanations will have to wait," Kayle chimes in, aloud. "We have only time for action."

 _"_ _I think we should have a_ _ **little**_ _information to go on, considering I don't know exactly what I'm doing here, and half of my friends are_ _ **dead**_ _,"_ another summoner joins the shared network.

"We are approaching the chamber where the Master Nexus lies. It holds the power to connect all of the nexuses from the far stretches of land we know as the Fields of Justice. It is the main power source of the Institute, and the only thing keeping the siege contained," the Judicator summarizes.

"And we're the only defense available?" the smooth voice of a soldier of fortune rhetorically asks. "This job is going to single-handedly pay for my retirement," Sivir grins.

"I bravely volunteer to charge in recklessly!" Tristana announces in her boundlessly optimistic, yet cocky tone.

"An honor to serve," Galio loans his stone-clad resolve.

"As balance dictates," the viridian ninja known as Akali runs alongside them.

 _"_ _I'm still rather new, just so you know…"_ the first summoner speaks. _"Sorry for my lack of experience, buuuut…who are you again and what exactly can you do?"_

"Ephrial. Whatever gets the job done."

 _"_ _Wait a sec…you said '_ _ **Ephrial**_ _'? The guy that knocked me out cold and took my summoning garments some time ago!?"_

"Yeah… My apologies for that," recalling his infiltration.

 _"_ _They only give the first set for free. Replacements aren't cheap, y'know!"_

"If we succeed in ensuring that all this death stops here, how about we call it even?"

 _"_ _If it doesn't involve bludgeoning me over the head, then sure."_

"As I said, whatever gets the job done," a faint smirk.

The Judicator extends a palm outward, and the runes ahead begin to glow a vivid cyan, cracking the way open for them.

"Move out!" the five armored soldiers that have been following Kayle from before rush forward, taking point in a zealous charge.

Everyone steps into a gargantuan cave. The air is very warm, as the heat is trapped under hundreds of feet of earth. Amidst the side of the space from which they had come, an enormous purple crystal spins around within a containment field like its smaller counterparts. The floor around them is mostly flat, stone smoothed out in a very wide plateau, ending in a bottomless cliff on one end. A lack of enemy company leaves the defenders wary.

"Where are they?" one of the soldiers looks around.

They begin to fan out ahead, taking it upon themselves to be in the frontlines as guardians of the Institute's summoners and champions. The one in the middle spots something on the ground in the distance, and begins to stray further. Weapon poised ahead of him, he slowly approaches the mysterious object. Step by step, he cautiously continues on, hearing an odd melody like that of a music box, playing subtly and enticingly, almost as if beckoning him to come closer. Sure enough, the object is indeed a box, becoming more apparent as the guard ventures the dimly-lit space, at last reaching the out-of-place device. The tiny lever on the side grinds to a halt, and consequently, the music along with it. Beads of sweat drop down onto the floor. Trepidation creeps inside the man's heart, yet sheer curiosity holds him in place, anticipating some form of reveal.

After a small pause, the container bursts open, and a large spring bounces outward. The armored soldier nearly soils himself, and takes the biggest sigh of relief in his life, almost laughing to himself. All that is attached to the spring is a mere card that says: " **READ ME**."

At the lack of an explosion or lethal projectile, a much calmer soldier takes the card into his hand. Following the implied instructions, he twists his wrist around, flipping the note over. It's just a normal playing card with a drawn-in speech bubble by the joker's mouth that reads: " **BOO!** "

Dread immediately strikes his heart, and two sinister daggers pierce his neck and back. A would-be scream of terror is reduced to a quick gurgle and collapsing sound of plate armor, loudly bringing the fallen knight's comrades to alert.

"What happened?! Soldier, report! …Report!" one calls out from the far right flank. "I said rep—!?"

His command goes incomplete, falling over as if having tripped. Letting out a wail as shrill as the sound of his armor scraping against the rock, something swiftly drags him into the shadows. The soldier's cry disappears into sounds of ravenous maim over muffled gasps.

"What's going on!?" the third shouts, turning around and walking backwards, away from the invisible sources of commotion.

He bumps into something behind him, and his heart nearly jumps out of his breastplate. Jolting up like a startled cat, the guard turns to see two unnatural green eyes floating in front of his face. Fear immediately takes control over his mind and body, and the soldier can do nothing but let out a piercing shriek as the monster before him opens its jagged mouth, sucking his very life force out. The scream comes to a chilling end, left to ebb into a dwindling echo around the cave's walls, and the ghastly tether of life-stealing magic vanishes. A thin, decrepit body of skin and bones collapses in the armor it inhabits. A helmet grinds along the fine grains of stone and dust, rolling into the vision of the rest of the group, and wobbles flat to its side like a coin landing on its face after being spun.

"They're here," Kayle says grimly.

 _"_ _What's up with the nexus?"_ one of the summoners notes, using their shared communication.

"The shield is fading!" The angelic figure springs to action, ascending on holy wings towards the structure. Calling upon her might, she covers the thinning dome in a shield of her own, casting a protective golden light to seal it from harm. She turns her head over a plated shoulder, "On your guard! They approach."

"From where!?" a nervous soldier looks around as he slowly backs himself into the group in front of the master nexus. "I can't see anything out there! It's all just…just…"

 **"…** **DARKNESS…"**

An eerie voice fills the room, as if to finish his statement, mocking him with a sinister chuckle. It reverberates from all directions, seemingly to come from nowhere, yet everywhere at the same time. A creeping veil of light-devouring shadow begins to engulf the very air around them, clouding visibility of everything but a small zone treated to the radiant light of the spinning crystal.

A streak of midnight black, and the frightened guard is tackled out of sight in a blink, leaving behind only his purple helm.

The last remaining man of the same uniform jumps as a firm hand grips his shoulder. "If you don't want to end up like the rest of your brothers in arms, stick close," Ephrial warns.

 _"_ _This doesn't look good…"_ the novice summoner feels the need to lower his voice in stealth, despite his words being transmitted directly into the defenders' minds.

The Blazing Swordsman quickly analyzes the current situation. Kayle needs to keep the majority of her focus on shielding the nexus, so she won't be able to move from her position. Galio is a beefy wall of stone and magic, and already a friend to the Judicator—a solid pick to stay behind and defend her from approaching foes. Tristana and Sivir are the only combatants with any real range, good for supporting the counterattack from behind the frontline. Akali is a ninja, trained to use shadows as her private battleground; an excellent ally to hold the line with in this void of a terrain.

He turns to them, putting his tactical experience to use. "Galio, Kayle is there to make sure nothing gets to the nexus. You're there to make sure nothing gets to her. Tristana and Sivir, cover the sides and keep your distance. Akali, you and I take the fight to them. Helmet guy…watch our backs."

"Hey, unless you're going to pay me up front, I suggest you watch who you dish out orders to," Sivir says as one mercenary to another.

 _"_ _His plan in sound. Let's worry about all of our lives first, and coin later,"_ a female summoner cuts in.

"She's right. After all, you can't take it with you," he references her policy regarding possessions of the dead.

Galio and Akali nod, asserting themselves next to their partners in battle. Tristana salutes before moving to position, and Sivir flashes a smug look before following after. The swordsman draws his blade and heads forward a fair distance from their ranged support, the fire illuminating the way for him.

"Get ready."

Stations taken and weapons ready, they wait for their enemy to engage. Silence takes an unnerving grasp as the defenders remain quiet, listening closely, hoping they can deny a surprise attack with just a tiny sound to give them direction. Though not in the way they are expecting, their wish is granted by the distinct cry of a crow in the distance. With only a second's delay, an enormous murder swarms them. Black feathers toss and flurry as the defending champions swat them down with blind strikes of their weapons, aiming to give themselves space from the persistent birds.

The swordsman cries out through the rampaging flock, "Galio, I need a twister! Tristana, light me up!"

"Did he just tell me to fire at him…?" the Gunner questions, smacking down a crow with the heft of her cannon.

 _"_ _That's insane!"_ the novice summoner contributes.

"I don't mind splitting the money five ways instead of six," Sivir smirks.

 _"_ _Just do it!"_ Ephrial shouts again, this time in the shared mental network.

The yordle takes aim. "All right…you asked for it. Here comes the **boom!** "

The two called-upon warriors raise themselves against the horde and let out their attacks, launching them at the requesting mercenary-knight. Gripping his blade in both hands, he sidesteps over, swinging through the mob of bloodthirsty avians, and connects his blade to the oncoming cannonball. Mowing through with feathered fiends pinned to the front of it, the large piece of ammunition is sliced in two. At the same time, the pursuing tornado of magic joins the fiery mix. A spiraling chain reaction becomes unleashed, creating a short-lived maelstrom of spinning fire like a small hurricane, knocking the crows into each other, and passing on the flames to their own kind in a fierce conflagration.

Everyone ducks below the fire-spin and burning enemies until the murder dies off, falling into dust and ashes. Ephrial brushes off the force of impact, unharmed by the scorch. Swings from his ardent blade turn heat into a protective barrier around him, becoming visible the more intense the flames. The transparent shielding is useful for defending against various attacks, especially against anything of the same element. Sparing its wielder from the effects of its own fire, the swordsman barely feels a change in temperature. The lack of any singes on his cape is worth years of testament to the blade's will-powered functionality.

"Whoa…that was cool! Can we do that again? Let's do that again!" Tristana's excitement seeps out.

"Behind you!" the helmeted soldier calls out.

A demonic clown seems to appear out of thin air, daggers raised over the unsuspecting yordle gunner. Tristana's eyes widen, fully aware that it's too late to launch herself away. A crossblade spins through the air from a distance, shaving just the frizz off the top of the yordle's head, and slices clean through the twisted figure…or its copy. The clown blows up, knocking Tristana backwards, landing her directly in front of the real Shaco. Grizzly daggers poise themselves again, cleaving down for the kill. The knives find themselves scraping against the solid ground, and the demon clown's grin turns to one of confusion.

"Tag!" Tristana looks up at the manic monster.

Shaco turns around to see the gunner standing behind him, unharmed, thanks to a widely-used summoner spell. He then looks at up at his hat, noticing a glowing ball sticking to it like a bell.

"Boomer says hi."

With that, the yordle sends him soaring back into the shadows with a blast from her cannon.

"I had better get some compensation for assisting in that," Sivir effortlessly catches her Chalicar.

"Look out!" the armored guard calls out again.

The black-haired mercenary's eyes snap to the corners, pressing a button on her weapon in a heartbeat. Protective magic stored in the relic she tosses at her enemies spares her a direct hit from a nightmarish siege minion. Smoke clears from the origin of the discharge, revealing silhouettes of many deformed figures marching toward them.

"Keep count for me, Summoner. I want to be paid by the kill," Sivir wastes no time, and lashes her weapon out to the side, cutting through a dozen enemies in the front line as it arcs its way back to her skilled hand.

"Who wants some!? You want some!? Come on!" Tristana locks and loads her weapon, bursting away enemies on her end in a flurry.

The Sentinel's Sorrow begins clobbering the emotionless adversaries that attempt to advance toward their crystalline target. "Justice will be done."

"Guard up!" Ephrial snaps at the hint of foes approaching head-on.

A midnight blur slams down on Akali's position, and the dust launched into the air turns to smoke deployed from her utility. Clashing of razors echo from the obscuring cloud, a mirror-matchup occurring between two sets of twin blades.

With a deadly arc, a scythe hurls at the swordsman's face, only to encounter unyielding steel and fire. Supernatural wisps for eyes glare at him with a besetting fury. If scarecrows could display anger, the crooked smile on Fiddlesticks' face is exactly how they would do it. It lets out a screech with what can be taken as an unhinged jaw, hurling a wave of imposed fear directly into Ephrial's mind. Images of his haunting past flash before his eyes, and frightful screams of terror claw at his ears. A blade-locked scythe pushes forward on a flinching mercenary-knight, and a crudely-sewn sack for a head begins to laugh.

Taken aback by the sudden intrusion, the fiery blade dims slightly. The swordsman relives his trial-packed life, all in a single moment. Surging with the emotions of struggle and persistence, his grip tightens itself again.

Blazing flames begin to intensify, pushing back the living bundle of straw. Oceanic eyes settle, returning the glare, and the fear now belongs to the scarecrow. Through willpower comes inherit tenacity along with it. His past isn't something Ephrial fears… It's what **_drives_** him—what fuels him to put an end to those that rejoice over such calamity. After all, it's hard to feel scared when you have nothing left to lose.

Ephrial pushes the living scarecrow off of him, and the mysterious creature takes no chances, summoning more crows to his whim. Each one bears luminous eyes like their master's, noisily cawing as they make an appearance. The swordsman dives straight into the fray, slicing through feathers and the surrounding minions once meant to serve the Institute's function.

The smoke from the ninja's device clears, and Nocturne takes a swipe at Akali's head. The deft martial artist flips backwards, clearing the strike and answering it with her own. Stern discipline and an unexplained hatred collide between their blades, sparking against each other with every blow. The ghastly figure sends a claw made of dark, shadowy magic at her, and Akali bounds over his head, avoiding the attack. Becoming more visibly agitated, as if hearing the voice in the assassin's head praising her, he turns around with fury in his spectral eyes. The two lock gazes and dash back into each other, razor edges thirsting for a decisive blow.

Acidic saliva rains down hard around Sivir, splashing in precise locations as she evades them with fleet-footed agility. A leap and a roll lands her into a clear spot, and she seizes the opportunity to begin launching a flurry of small blades at the voidborn can of living artillery. Spinning edges slice at the deformed minions, passing from one to another, making their way to a hungry Kog'Maw. With a unique and terrifying tongue, the ravenous creature of the void shoots each one down as they approach. A look of disgust at the sight and angst at losing some of her weaponry, she grasps her trusty crossblade from her back and snaps the blades outward with a switch. Craning her head to the side, the Battle Mistress cracks her neck and loosens her shoulder, and hurls herself back into battle, sending her weapon boomeranging ahead.

 _"_ _Things don't seem to be letting up…"_ a summoner becomes discouraged.

 _"_ _How many of these things are there!?"_ another follows.

Galio wrestles with three warped darklings, then shoves them aside. Six more take their place, and begin to avail at pressing him back. Fire from above ignites them into burning ash and cinder. The stone guardian looks up at the exhausted angel, pushing her power to its limit. On top of shielding the nexus from sneak attacks and cannon fire, she has been healing the group the whole time, and now extends her power further by bringing her sword into the mix.

A bad sight turns worse, seeing Shaco return to battle to pester Tristana as the frontlines remain occupied. Explosions ring from all sides as the mounted enemies unload their cannons, peppering the nexus and ground around the combatants. This battle has to end here, and it has to end _now_. An intrepid guardian flies himself to the middle of the battlefield.

"So be it," he mutters to himself.

"Galio, don't do what I think you are about to do. Remember, faith and steel!" Kayle reaches outward, unable to fly closer without giving up the nexus.

"No, Light-Winged One…I will not fail my duty to protect the ones I am charged with guarding once again. Today, it is faith and **_stone_**."

With that, he crashes himself into the ground, forming a crater beneath his wake. A swirling force of wind and magic careens around the entire onslaught, dragging his enemies into a giant pile around his sheltering wings. The air howls loudly at the might of the pull, only dragging those he calls his foes off of their feet, sending them flying toward the growing mass. Piercing frequencies of whistling wind intensify as the air forces itself through the tight spaces of the botched assemblage. The last of the darkling minions joins the accumulation, and the wailing gale ceases immediately.

A deep voice thunders from the brief silence, coming from the core of the mountain of enemies. **"I WILL PROTECT…!"**

Each of the defenders makes a dive for the ground, using their weapons to shield their faces at the lack of any actual cover in their surroundings. Kayle watches the event unfold behind the shade of her visor. An almost deafening explosion of wind and rock sends the enemies flying to all sides, neutralizing them in an equally dazzling and terrifying sight.

The weary champions pick themselves up, observing their new surroundings. Gravel and bodies of fallen enemies lay a mess all around. Unconscious and wounded as they may be, the very monsters kept imprisoned by the Institute of War as contestants on the Fields of Justice, remain alive. Of course they did... Legend or lucky, the bringers of death managed to cheat it as well.

An inspired knight of the Institute grabs his spear from a fallen enemy and approaches the last corrupted minion that mindlessly crawls toward the nexus, using what's left of its body. One quick thrust, and the lance finishes it off, claiming his thirteenth kill of the battle.

"There…it's over. We did it. We did it…!" he raises his weapon.

Sighs of relief from the summoners are quickly interrupted by a sight that nightmares are made of. A behemoth of a wicked creature stomps into sight from the remaining darkness, and before the knight can react, snaps his jaws over the unsuspecting victim. Accompanied by a few, loud crunches, the creature devours him whole, armor included. The hulking crimson brute seems to grow even bigger, right before their very eyes. A shrill, taunting laughter, not belonging to this world, follows the last bite.

The man's helmet rolls toward the group, being brought to a halt by Ephrial, raising the toe of his boot. Hollow, empty eyes of the armor piece look up at him. A cerulean gaze looks back up at the towering monstrosity. The company of defending champions raise their armaments once again, prepared to bring the giant down.

They charge with the speed of a boosted morale-one gained by having survived together as an unlikely band of heroes, and united through the loss of those that fought beside them. The creature whose true name cannot be spoken by any tongue in Runeterra, known only as Cho'Gath, ferociously stomps on the ground, causing a tremor beneath he advancing warriors' feet. Unearthly spikes begin shooting from the already cracked ground, prodding out in odd directions with deadly points.

Experienced legends of valor and skill weave through the rumbling chaos, some choosing to slice through the spines that bar their path. The abomination screeches at the advance, and begins running toward them. A combination of varying attacks chip away at the beast's naturally armored skin and vitality, wearing him down one size at a time.

A nimble yordle dips out of the way of a ravenous mouth, leaving an explosive in her stead, causing Cho'Gath to wail and recoil in pain. Sivir's crossblade clips at its heels, bringing it down to a knee. Twin kama blades, backed by intense martial arts, fend off grappling claws and slicing appendages. An arcane blade makes use of the opening, releasing a crippling blaze of charged fervor on the hard shell that encases the Terror of the Void, causing it to fall on its back.

Kayle ascends high above, leaving the Nexus to its own barrier, and points her sword downward, ready to drive it into the monster's head. She dives for a graceful finish, and a sudden crack of light illuminates the room from ahead.

"STOP!" a commanding voice halts Kayle's descent, just feet away from execution.

A Senior Summoner marches into the room through the main door, opposite from which the defending champions had come, followed by a company of high-ranking summoners.

"Grieve. Why do you stay my weapon?" the Judicator hovers above.

"You've all done a superb job of preventing the loss of many lives, as well as the Institute itself. Now, it is time to get things back in order," he signals the mages he arrived with.

They walk ahead of him and begin casting spells on the fell creatures that intended to destroy them. One-by-one, they disappear, teleporting into reinforced dungeons.

"You have witnessed what they are capable of—what destruction they have brought upon this day…yet you would keep them alive?"

"Be at ease, Kayle. The origin of this did not come from within our prisons. Destroying the Institute's resources will not change what has been done."

"'Resources'…? These monsters have wills of their own. Minds that are _very_ capable of thought, as shown by them working in tandem. They do not see themselves as tools of any man, mage or not…and they will be waiting to have another chance to show you exactly that," Ephrial glares.

"A chance we will deny them. Magic is a learning experience, after all. Our security will be all the better from this."

"Tell that to the families of all those lost on this day."

"This is not what Ashram would have wanted," Kayle speaks.

"The High Councilor is not here, however, is he? Your contract still binds you to those that hold the Institute in their charge. Any breach in that iron-clad agreement voids the withheld interference in your little quarrel with your sister. Your millennia of service is far from up."

"Grieve…" she growls beneath her helmet.

With that, he turns and leaves the chamber, letting his summoners tend to the scene.

Ephrial surveys the area, from his acquaintances taking a well-deserved respite, to summoners looking over the littering remains of the enemy. He notices the angelic figure bend to pick up an odd stone from the ground, indubitably a piece of the fallen Galio. Her helmet masks any emotion from reaching the eyes of those around her, but Ephrial knows all too well the body language of those scarred by losses, no matter how subtle.

He walks over, approaching tactfully in plain sight of her peripheral vision. "A thousand years is a long time to postpone peace."

"A thousand years are nothing but a blink to my people," she responds, almost cold, a hidden gaze still fixed on the rock.

"Yet it only takes only a few actual blinks for individuals to begin mattering to one another."

"Justice will always have its casualties. There is no mending that…not until my work is complete."

"Hm…an asserted ideal, inverted armor color scheme, swords of a comparable nature…I almost feel like I'm talking to an alternate version of myself."

She glances over. "Your sword…where did you get it?"

"Call it an heirloom of sorts."

"Would you allow me to have a closer examination?"

Wariness arises, a hand holds the sword in its sheathe. "Depends on your intentions."

"What's going on!?" an elite summoner cries out.

Everyone in the chamber springs up in alert. The Master Nexus begins spinning wildly like its smaller brethren did before.

"I didn't touch it!" another high-class mage shouts.

Clamor fills the air with questions and claims of an impending explosion. The crystal begins glowing a shimmering white, bleaching the view of all but the brilliant light itself. That feeling of being tossed into the air washes over Ephrial as he shields his eyes.

"Not this again…"


	8. Chapter 8: Homecoming

**-  
Chapter 8**

 ** _Homecoming_**

Ephrial's senses tickle with familiarity. An aura of tension, the smog in the air, and an especially potent tug of instinct to watch his back. The light fades, and his bleached view becomes a haze of visible outlines and shapes. His sight gradually comes back into focus, and voices of excitement begin to surround him.

Who is that? Where did he come from? What the hell is going on? Voices clamor and murmur as they form a rabble.

He shakes his head, recomposing himself. Sharp eyes quickly scan his new surroundings…or rather, an old setting he once left behind, long ago. The ill-kept roads, cracked walls of buildings, a gloomy sky… The spontaneous malfunction of the Master Nexus has landed him into the depth of Noxus, and in one of the especially less-than-charming neighborhoods.

"Aye, that's 'im! No mistakin' it!" a gruff voice calls out.

"It's the half-blood traitor!" The crowd of people slowly turns into a mob as the voices continue to call out in revelation to his identity.

Half-blood ' _traitor'_ …? An ironic twist to a paradox born from his mixed bloodline, and turning his sword against the half that would see him dead. As a living balance between opposing natures, Ephrial is a unique contradiction in a variety of ways, but treachery is not one of those aspects. After all, how could someone betray a nation that loathes his very existence? A nation that saw his kind as targets for extinction.

The mercenary-knight rises to his feet, a hand swiftly grasping the hilt of his blade. A glint of steel and lick of fire; the ardent sword swings around, covering the back of his neck from the crudely serrated edge of a zweihander.

Only moments after his arrival, and tools of destruction already threaten his life. No hesitation…only action that dictates life or death in a moment's notice. He expects nothing less from the unforgiving backstreets where the shadows of night offer only bloody daggers, and the sun invites the public display of violent duels in open view.

A blazing sword pushes off the opposing weapon, and with a fluid turn, he spins around, rushing the hilt of his blade into the gut of his assailant. A non-lethal measure, effective at taking the man out of the scenario before he can even react. The rest of the crowd slowly gathers closer, taking arms, while shop owners subtly reel in their stock out of the way of what will soon be a battleground.

 _"_ _This isn't good…"_ The swordsman thinks to himself, surveying the sharp weapons closing in. _"I need to get out of the city…and_ _ **fast**_ _."_

There's his opening—a tall, metalworker in struggle with his career, bearing a custom pike in his hands. What others may see as an impassible wall, Ephrial sees as the least expected course of action, serving his escape in calculated measure. Noxians are taught to go straight for the biggest and most formidable opponents, proving their might, and earning glory through the pride of taking down the toughest foes. Most Ionians, such as the tribe of Ephrial's heritage, prefer avoiding violence, viewing it as a path of self-destruction. In moments like these, both disciplines work hand-in-hand.

He twirls his sword around in a quick motion, surrounding himself in a brief ring of fire; a flashy move to give himself space, causing the circle of Noxians to take a step backwards from the heat. The withdrawal presents the opportunity for the half-blood to make his move. Quick steps charge straight towards the blacksmith, provoking the anticipated response of lurching his spear right towards him. A nimble swordmaster dips out of the way of a brutal set of spikes designed to maim and murder, landing him well-inside of the man's guard. With the Noxian unable to use his polearm up close, the opening allows a steel-plated shoulder to smash into his chest, knocking him back over like a falling tree.

Mid-descent, Ephrial jumps onto the chest of his chosen target, and uses him as a lift to bound over the men behind him as they fall like dominoes under the heft of the stalwart spearman. The remaining crowd begins chase, being briefly disrupted by the stumbling of the break in their ring. It's not the biggest delay, but any bit of distance kept from a riot of murderous intent is to be treasured.

The Blazing Swordsman runs through estranged streets, past lanes of memories, and turning corners of blood-stained cobblestone. The enormous skull-faced castle of the High Command stands tall in the distance behind Ephrial, as if stalking him like the dark shadow of his past, once more watching his escape from the city-state under a moonless night.

Get out unseen and before they lockdown the only gates allowing passage through a massive wall. A goal, simple in wording, but starting amidst the most inconvenient of situations. How the blood-infused curse follows him in forms of irony. As a warrior versed in the mastery of two arts of two separate nations, taught by the very prodigies of their respective representatives, he has surpassed both teachings in an unlikely harmony born through his internal chaos. A set of circumstances and skill that have left his deeds carved on a host of villages and cities in Valoran, and blossoming into a household name through all of Runeterra after his abrupt appearance in the League's broadcasts. Such a figure of hard-earned strength would normally be celebrated in Noxus, despite his ties with other factions, save Demacia. Even Mundo, a Zaunite butcher of people, including Noxians, with no conscience and no regard for life, is championed within the walls of the city-state, granted free roam for his sadistic science. However, because Ephrial is half Ionian, his achievements are seen as a mockery to Noxus, as his supposed 'weakness' and 'impurity' have dealt blows to the pride of the nation that had blamed his kin for ruining the Noxian way with teachings that oppose brutality.

"Over here!" a woman cries out to her fellow mob, chasing him through an alley and down the trash-filled slums.

For Noxians of underprivileged backgrounds, claiming the swordsman's head is a means to ascend from the gutters, and to be mounted in a place of honor. He is but a trophy to them. Even after Swain had changed Noxus with the defeat of Darkwill, and his zealous, axe-wielding follower severed the heads of the nobles and monetarists seen as obstacles, some citizens continue to struggle to survive days of empty stomachs and inadequate shelter. Killing, if not just stealing, is their only means of seeing the next day. None can attest that better than the League's champion that goes by the title of 'The Blade's Shadow'.

An intrepid peddler comes into view ahead, pushing a cart of lantern oil across the dark road. This fortunate development brings forth an idea of desperate measure. Ephrial unsheathes his blade, brandishing the flames of incarnate willpower once again. The commotion catches the merchant's attention, and he begins to move faster in an attempt to heave his inventory out of the way. The window of opportunity the half-blood mercenary cannot afford to lose begins closing swiftly. He hurls his weapon ahead of himself, sending it spinning in the air like a loose torch, landing it between the wooden spokes of a fleeting wheel. The cart owner jumps back from the near-miss by his foot, letting his grip go as he retreats from the flaming armament that locks his cargo in place.

Ephrial lurches forward, diving feet-first with his hand extending towards his sword. The slick coating on the stonework left behind by an earlier rain carries him forward as he reclaims his blade, slashing through the cart as he slides under it. Giving into the damage done, the wooden frame breaks apart, scattering glass vessels of flammable liquid along the ground. The oil rides along the water, spreading swiftly into a blanket of flames, rendering it impassible to the swarm of pursuers, and forcing them to turn back and alter their course through a nearby alleyway.

With time bided by a stroke of fortune, the mercenary returns to his feet, and dashes down the lonely, cold road of a residential district. Without breaking a step, he grabs a shaggy cloak left unattended on a barrel, swinging it around his out-of-place armor. Though clandestine in appearance now, he is far from safe. The watchful eyes of Noxus are everywhere, and word travels very quickly. The opportunity to grab a bounty within the grounds of their homeland is too great to pass up. After all, the chance to kill a champion of the Institute does not often appear outside of the Fields of Justice.

 _"_ _I need to get out of the city before they block the only exit…"_ mulling over his situation as he pants heavily.

Having fought all day between a League match and the assault on the Institute has greatly taxed his stamina. Confrontation must be avoided, and his sword must remain sheathed if he is to keep from unwanted attention. Through cunning and the will to persist, he must escape through speed and stealth alone. Down the street, across the intersection, he begins crossing through his next barring obstacles. He leaps through a shattered window, the fragmented glass crunching beneath his boots upon landing. Keeping as straight of a path as possible, he runs through a broken wall and sprints across a large cafeteria.

The layout, not unlike the one of the school he had once attended, strikes the mercenary with memories as he weaves through the dilapidation. Noxian schools are not like those of other nations. The primary study is war, in all its fashions; tactics and strategies especially. Noxus does not rely on just having brute force, but the knowledge of how to use it. Most nations are constructed through or after war, at one point or another during its foundation, and especially their preservation. No existing nation at the present date can contest that fact. However, this brutal city-state keeps war as a _tradition_ , as they have so displayed with Ionia and Demacia.

Ephrial springs over a smashed table, recalling the many bruises and bloody lips he had endured when defending his sister from those that would target her. Cerina was a shining reflection of their mother; bright-minded and beautiful, but too kind for her own good, and ever the pacifist. Ever the example Noxian prejudice preyed upon with blame for weakening them as a nation. Such conflict forced her twin into routing gangs of bullies to the point where it became a casual occurrence. A brutal string of lessons and conditioning that forged and tempered persistence and endurance to a level where his blood-imposed enemies were **forced** to see the direction opposite of Ephrial as the path of least resistance…and injury. Of course, it didn't help that instructors would actually encourage such confrontations, seeing them as the very demonstration of the Noxian code. However, the propaganda against his heritage undermined any mote of prestige he earned that would have been otherwise granted to a pureblood. Steps over a row of collapsed beams, and through an open door, lead him back outside to the present world.

A city-state is not without a buzzing nightlife, and Noxus is no exception. Beyond the strip of worn-down school buildings is the beginning of the main market district; the outskirts of the Ivory Ward. Anything from a simple loaf of bread to a set of dragon-scale armor, one can find in this place. As a middle-to-upper class area of business and varying prosperity, it is a constant target for the neighboring desperation. Sticky fingers and cloaked daggers are always lurking here.

The retreating knight makes a seamless entry into the crowd, pulling a hood over his head. He is now one of the patrons in the long streets of the various stalls and buildings set for transactions, blending in with the assemblage. Perhaps a bit _too_ well, as a passing citizen mistakes him for the child pickpocket that quickly brushes between them as their proximity closes in.

"What the—my coin pouch…!?" the man's temper quickly boils. He turns to see the innocent swordsman, and grabs his shoulder, stopping him. "There's only one punishment for a thief in Noxus…"

Ephrial merely raises his hands to show he has nothing in them, much less any intent on running like a guilty man.

"Don't try to deny it, whelp. There ain't no way a street rat like yourself could afford a sword like that without stealin'," he attempts to seize the shining hilt as payback.

A firm grip stays his wrist. "I have no intention of repaying a crime that which I did not commit," Ephrial tosses the man's built arm aside.

"Oh, a price will be paid, alright…in blood!" the agitated consumer brandishes a hidden blade from his sleeve, taking a swipe at the hooded mercenary.

A sidestep and an open palm dives out of the way, while effortlessly pushing the attacker off balance. The man stumbles into a few small empty crates, cracking them open, and leaving him in a pile of humiliation. The noise attracts the attention of a passerby who calls out against the defending swordsman.

"Hey, what's going on this time?"

"Thief!" the dagger-wielding man cries out.

"A thief? More like a perfect opportunity to test out my new mace!" the new combatant joins the fray.

Ephrial's piercing perception quickly notices the oncoming man's attire. Dressed quite similarly to his accuser, and being so eager to brawl in another person's affairs, something is not quite right. In Noxus, fights happen all the time, in almost any street. No one is ever willing to help out a stranger unless… There it is—the link that ties them together: a small tattoo subtly placed on the left wrist. This isn't just some coincidence created out of being in the wrong place at the wrong time…this is a setup. One to make it appear that their chosen victim is branded a thief in order to publicly kill for their possessions, all while making themselves out to be blameless of an outright murder. Clever dastards.

 _"_ _This has to be ceased quickly, and without drawing my blade…"_ Ephrial avoids dragging more attention by bringing bright flames to the mix.

He waits for the mace to reach within bludgeoning distance, carefully timing his counteraction. As the weapon swings down, he steps out of its way and grabs the hilt, forcing it to swing down and around, at an angle off to the side, forcing it out of its owner's grip with a rough twist. A quick swipe across the man's face, and teeth scatter across the cobblestone before being joined by a regretful skull. The heavily-used dagger rejoins the fight, and dives in from the side, missing its nimble mark. The gang member refuses to be denied satisfaction, and turns the assault into a tackle, knocking the mace out of Ephrial's hand as they tumble over rainwater and an empty market stall.

One hand pins the mercenary with a firm grip on his cloak and the other raises high the large knife. "Die, you worthless Noble!"

'Noble'…? Must be a glimpse of the golden hilt of his blade that gave him the thought. Ephrial has never known what it is to be of such high status. His father's disgrace to the ranks of the Noxian military peaked at the birth of he and his sister. They were later forced to relocate into a middle-class district, though treated with far less privilege. 'Strength above all'…unless you're at all part Ionian.

The knife plunges downwards, and a protesting hand contests it. With the other arm keeping the murderer's vice from moving towards his neck, Ephrial fights the descent of the blade poised toward his eye. The two lock in a test of true grit, using nothing but raw strength and endurance. A variety of obstacles overcome from the prior hours leave the knight worse for wear in such a position.

Something about the very air brings him back in time. A time of different strife than what he had grown accustomed to over the years of traveling. The part in his life where conflict was imposed on him, rather than when he began to impose himself on it. He is brought back to the chapters of the past before he began his journey to find a safe place for his sister to live. The familiarity of the streets, the gloomy sky, the smell of blood and sinew. Only the strong survive here…and it is this place that taught him how to be strong enough for two.

The fire within begins to stir with an echo of a loved one long-departed. He cannot lose here…there is much to be done. Words with everlasting purpose announce a second wind.

"For Cerina…for **_justice!_** "

Degrading steel begins yielding away from the burning oceanic eyes of determination. Ephrial's grip starts clasping with enough force to begin causing the thug's wrist to crack, causing him to forfeit the dagger. The Blazing Swordsman casts the disarmed limb out of the way for him to reach the leather straps around the man's chest. A hard pull yanks him inward for a brutal headbutt to the face. Fervorous force sends the Noxian recoiling back, and Ephrial kicks the bandit off of him. Wasting no time, the mercenary-knight winds and swings his legs outward, recovering to his feet with renewed vitality.

Blind fury and Noxian rage numb the pain with adrenaline and enmity as the market thug reveals a face doused in blood. Ignoring a severely broken nose, he begins charging in a frenzy. With a quick stance adopted from his foreign half's martial arts, the unwelcome swordsman readies an appropriate takedown. A rampaging fist launches toward his face, and with precision-crafted technique, Ephrial knocks the devastating assault directly upward with the heel of his left hand. A unique, defensive uppercut renders the attack useless, while firmly standing his ground in order to play into his follow-up. In a display of fluid and disciplined execution, the half-blood steps forward at the peak of his redirection, rocketing a swift set of knuckles into the gut of a wide-open guard. The masterful form aligns the body for maximum force, sending the man flying backwards a few yards away with the impact, and into a cluster of barrels.

"No fighting in the marketplace!" Noxian guards cry out from a distance as they approach in full armor.

"There he is!" another party calls out from a different direction. The bloodthirsty paupers-turned-bounty hunters have caught up with him.

So much for avoiding confrontation and unwanted attention…

Ephrial uses his regained stamina in a steadfast retreat, jumping over wheelbarrows and stalls to avoid crossbow bolts and hungry blades. The chase continues with no room for slowing down. The size of the market seems much larger than Ephrial remembers, just now passing by the steel mill located in the heart of it. A small group of soldiers appear from the alleyways ahead, attempting to cut his path off. As if an automated response, he speeds up rather than slowing to change course. Instead of blazing through with a streak of fire, risking his identity to a larger audience, he resorts to an old trick of his Ionian mentor.

"Fire in the hole!" he whips a small pouch into the ranks lying in wait just ahead.

The Noxians immediately fall to their training, moving out of the way of an explosive concoction of magic and alchemy. With a sound of a rustling jingle of coins, the sack falls flat, succumbing to gravity and nothing more. Ephrial dashes through the opening unopposed, leaving the soldiers to blink in confusion as he whizzes past.

The swordsman smirks at the ruse, sacrificing a meager amount of coins, leftover from the day's earlier League match, for a quick escape without losing velocity. This bluff was taught to him by an Ionian sergeant he had met during his wayward journey to find his sister's murderer. By chance or fate, Ephrial had encountered the dutiful man already skirmishing with a group of Noxian soldiers. Joining him in the midst of battle, their strength prevailed against their numbers, and sparked what would turn into a partnership. He would accompany the Ionian soldier on his way to Demacia to seek their aid for an impending Noxian invasion, based on reliable intelligence. Along the way, the swordmaster of the island nation would instruct him the ways of the time-honored martial arts of his family. Being a prodigy of the blade by hard determination, not freely-gifted talent, Ephrial achieved mastery of the new style in their temporary time together. The bond of friendship between the two swordmasters was cut short, however, during an improbable encounter with a Noxian force lead by Darius himself. Ephrial's newfound skills freed himself from the onslaught, losing sight of his friend in a forced retreat. Knowing he would be unable to acquire Demacia's assistance on Ionia's behalf without the proper documentation, the half-blooded swordsman diverted back to his wayward journey, once again alone, haunted by his losses. Through all the times since then, and all yet to come, the memory of Zelos remains.

Down a steep, inclined road, and around the corner, Ephrial lands out of sight of the pursuing parties for just a few moments to spare. With a slow pace, a small caravan drawn by a saber-toothed mountain lynx rides in the opposite direction, toward where he had just come. A risky opportunity to juke the mob may just be what he needs right now, and he takes the chance.

Avoiding feeding-distance with the big cat's head, he squeezes himself in between the large feline and the walls of the archway, and rushes to the back of the wagon, taking a casual seat on the back as if he belongs there. The approaching clatter of metal gear shuffling with each step arrives around the corner, and the chasing men and women stumble with the sudden sight of a dangerous predator walking past. With careful haste, they stay out of the creature's way, hoping not to set it off, and begin their sprint again when appropriately distanced.

In the clear for the moment, and still making progress while being able to take a small respite, his guard remains vigilant. The roads are quiet once more, and Ephrial peers off into the distance ahead, gauging how much further he must go to reach the outside.

 **`*~\\-~vVv~-/~*`**

With a helpful kilometer of distance traveled, the exotic beast halts in front of a well-lit manor. The clandestine swordsman is now in a luxurious residential district, reserved for families of nobility and wealthy monetarists.

The half-blood steps off the back of the caravan and resumes the treacherous path that awaits. This part of the city is illuminated with many ornate lanterns, one of the few places in Noxus where fighting and bloodshed usually concern disputes on family honor rather than survival and banditry. His pursuers will be looking for someone sticking to the shadows, so he figures walking out in the open may prove to be more camouflage in his current setting. Walking with purpose, measured steps tread the fine stone with the speed of someone in a hurry, but remaining inconspicuous, as if merely on an errand.

A familiar lamppost gilded with a battleaxe directly into the stand brings forth a vivid memory. It has been many years since he had last traveled this street, but there was no mistaking this place. Just ahead, he sees the very spot in the middle of the road where he beheld the last sight of his parents. On his way back to his home at the time, he discovered the first casualties of the Noxian prejudice against Ionia. The disgraced Noxian Commander and the benevolent Ionian priestess, face-down in a pool of blood, clasped in each other's arms.

The ghost of his younger self from that fateful day brushes past him, running back home to his sister in a desperate race, with the fear of worse turning to worst. Steps of the famed swordsman keep pressing on, unable to spare the time to pay his respects once again. No…not just due to lack of time…but the sentiment they left behind in their lessons. 'Keep moving forward. You don't have to forget, but don't stop. Just keep moving forward…'

With his past in Noxus behind him, he raises his eyes to the lights of the remaining portion of the city ahead. A small swarm of torchlight in the distance moves from one side towards the city entrance. Are they cutting his escape off already? No…the news could not have reached that far already. The movements aren't even coming from the right direction. There must be some other commotion going on down there. Better reach the gate before they do.

Ephrial tilts his body forward for a full-on sprint, dashing down the quiet road, and leaving the residential area as the lights around him begin to disappear. The thin layer of water beneath his boots splash with every step, going down the slope of the path, with gravity working in the favor of his momentum. Aging warehouses and prestigious buildings dedicated to the trades of respected crafts fall behind him as he makes his way into the main plaza. He keeps to the ring of close-knit buildings that circle around a large statue of Swain, complete with his cane in-hand, and feathered menace resting on his shoulder.

The gate is within view at a reasonable distance, and clamor of soldiers bearing swords and torches fill the scene. Superiors shout out orders, and horses gallop through the humming crowd of citizens.

"Where did she go!?" a mounted captain surveys a handful of dead soldiers with massive gashes in their bodies. "Find her!"

 _"_ _There's an intruder besides myself…?"_ the half-blooded mercenary questions in thought.

Another group approaches from behind, calling out to the others.

"Did you get him!?" a market guard yells out.

"The hell are you talking about? Don't you know a woman when you see one? Go back to your post in the market, you cannon fodder reject!"

Now's the time to act. A breweing feud allows Ephrial to slip through the crowd of onlookers unnoticed, still keeping away from the view of those searching for him. His exit still remains under high alert, rendering it impassible in this state. There has to be a way…something to divert their attention elsewhere.

"Check the sewers!"

Interesting… Their mark did not escape through the front door, but rather through the underground network. That explains the gates remaining open, but they surely won't be kept that way for long. There must be a means to direct their suspicion away from the gate. Ephrial takes a wide view at his surroundings, looking for possible options.

There it is. The perfect diversion lies everywhere. With rising tension in the air, and military officers present, many Noxians might find themselves eager to catch their eye in hopes of recognition of their strength. Ephrial moves like a phantom betwixt different areas of the crowd, snatching coin purses and placing them in the unsuspecting possessions of others. A push here, a nudge there, and people are already barking at each other with accusations and death threats. There's only one more thing needed that will set this pool of sharks into a frenzy… Blood. At the very least, some notable bodily injury.

The captain of the soldiers will have to do. His incapacitation will have his soldiers scrambling to contain the resulting riot. But how to do so without being _too_ ruthless. He is still trying to save the city-state from itself, after all.

Armored underlings leave the captain unattended as he issues orders to disperse the crowd, granting Ephrial the slim opportunity to graze past in close proximity of the officer without being seen. Like setting up a shot with an arrow, he waits for the horse to align for a straight path into the thick of the rabble. One loud slap on the mount's rear, and the armored creature bucks, flinging the unsuspecting man to the floor. The panicked steed plunges wildly into the crowd, dragging his rider by a strap caught on his boot along with him.

"Secure the captain!" one of the soldiers cries out, sending the population into an all-out brawl.

Two diligent soldiers remain at the gate, barring its path as the guards stationed up top work the winches to close the massive door. Ephrial approaches them as calmly as one would advance someone with a simple inquiry, hood covering the majority of his face. It's now or never.

A cautious sword points his way. "Halt right there! No one is to pass until these matters are—"

With the back of his hand, the mercenary-knight swats away the weapon by the flat of its blade, simultaneously affording him the opportunity to wind up a heavy strike from up close. A blinding fist meteors into the soldier's visor, sending the man backwards into the rapidly closing hunk of steel fortification. An unconscious guard falls limply to the floor, one solid blow felling him with newly-formed dents in his helmet.

"Hey, what—!" the words of the second sentry are cut off by an expeditious kick to the stomach, leading into a shoulder toss to land him on top of his downed partner.

Following with a quick dip and roll below the giant gate just before it closes, he makes a narrow escape just in time. With the commotion keeping the crowd's full attention on the inside, Ephrial walks at a casual pace down the long stretch of a stone bridge that leads out into the open land.

He can almost feel the unblinking gaze of the giant skull of Noxus' inner-keep beaming down on him, watching him as he walks off into the distance. The Blazing swordsman doesn't look back. Instead, he takes off the borrowed cloak, letting the wind carry it away. Once more, the half-blood departs the city-state, like a ghost, leaving behind the past where he had spent within those formidable walls. He must keep moving forward. He will not forget…but he cannot stop.

He can only keep moving forward.


	9. Chapter 9: Mystery of the Flame

**-  
Chapter 9**

 ** _Mystery of the Flame_**

The revealing sound of a snapping twig in the silence jerks the lone swordsman awake. Quick acts of grabbing his resting sword, and leaping into action, are stayed by an unnatural weight pressing down on him, and his body fails to budge.

"What the…I can't move—!?" Ephrial, flat on his back, tilts his head downward, noting the lack of any visible binds around him, yet feels tight constraints like that of a thick rope tethering his limbs to the ground.

"Ease yourself," a stranger's voice says flatly.

The immobile mercenary-knight shifts his gaze past the crackling flames of the campfire. An enigmatic figure sits on a fallen tree, fully shrouded in dark layers of a heavy cloak. Complimented by the shade of night, a concealing hood reveals nothing to be distinguished other than the man's jaw.

"If you intend to kill me, you had better be quick," an unyielding spirit hardens through cerulean eyes. His body tenses against the magical restraint, fists balling up and muscles flexing in perseverance.

"If it was my goal to kill you, I would not have put my energy into a non-lethal spell. Then again, one can't afford to give _you_ any kind of opening to retaliate…" The man unsheathes a gilded blade. "A marvel in its own, is it not?"

Ephrial pauses his struggle for a moment as he notices his sword in the hands of this intruder. Adding to the surprise, the flames remain tame within the man's grip, rather than sputtering wildly out of control as it would in hands other than its master's.

Turning the blade upward, and raising it to the clandestine eyes beneath the hood, the stranger takes a closer inspection of the fine details. "Amazing…even though the blade is burning like a dragon's tongue, the hilt remains cool to the touch. Magic is quite an art of wonder, is it not?" turning unseen eyes back towards the snared swordsman.

"What is it you want?" an ever-calm voice demands an answer.

"Hm…we are not taught 'wants', but rather, deeds. What is desire but a mere distraction without the very action to grasp hold of it?"

"You may be lecturing the wrong person about getting things done," Ephrial continues fighting against his restraints, refusing to give in.

"Otherworldly steel and mixed magicks to temper a blade with no limit to its arcane potential…yet it cannot be wielded by the faint of heart. Even still, should one lose control of their own zealousness, they should perish by the very flames they seek to engulf their foes in. A weapon to kill, but not to destroy… Truly an object of most discriminate use…and in the possession of one who knows what it means to be discriminated _against_."

"Speak plainly, magus. After a course of events already begging many questions, I am in no mood for cryptic statements," Ephrial, irked at seeing the precious family heirloom in the hands of a man revealing nothing about himself, yet who seems to have a fair share of knowledge about him and the sword he brandishes.

"Is it really all that cryptic? Surely you have felt it yourself. That constant tug to unleash an unbridled rage, and let the sword draw it all out into a devouring inferno? Yet hatred and rage cannot wield the blade, lest it consumes them in their own ire. The very passion that is required to fuel the potential of this weapon can just as easily turn against that who uses it. In a person's hands, it may swallow someone lost in his or her own fervor…or, it will yield to the will of one as unbreakable as itself."

"Your words say much to specific information about something you have clearly never held before," knowing the difference one admires an object with familiarity versus beholding for the first time. "Just who are you?"

"You have done well to remain unscorched thus far…" ignoring the question. "However, your journey is all but close to an end. I have no doubt she knew of this, long before it was even apparent to myself. Still, I wonder…will you continue to remain your own conqueror? Or will you be consumed by your own strength…?"

Ephrial, still contending against the invisible tethers, budges slightly; a small sign of triumph against the restraining spell. The man slowly sheathes the ardent sword and walks over to the mercenary-knight. A look of unwavering defiance watches as the shrouded figure calmly lays the weapon by its rightful owner and begins walking off into the darkness.

"I would rather not overstay my welcome. We shall meet again, Blazing Swordsman…should you make it that far."

With that, the enigmatic presence is gone, leaving no trace. Moments pass in silence, and the fetters around Ephrial dissolve, causing him to jolt with the sudden give in resistance. A hand automatically reaches for the crimson sheath, but he neglects to draw the blade. There is no point, as the man is long gone, leaving the half-blood with a new set of unnerving questions. If he really wanted him dead, he would not have wasted the opportunity that many would kill each other for in order to seize the pleasure for themselves.

Just who was he? How did he know so much about the sword once sealed away? Ephrial remains ignorant to the origin of his own weapon, but his mind races with the idea of a much deeper history behind it. However, such mysterious statements confirmed what he has only been able to speculate until now.

The pondering knight partially reveals the fiery edge, gazing into the calm tongues of flame dancing along the blade. Many battles with this armament have matched truth with the intruder's words. The fire can be as dim as a candle, or as fierce as the punishing flames of hell itself, mirroring what he feels at any given time. However, its sensitivity cannot go unchecked, even for a moment, lest it spins into an uncontrollable wildfire. A delicate conundrum of feeding the blade passion to ignite, but without crossing the threshold of his own heart. As easily as one can lose themselves to a variety of emotions, they can lose control of this physical embodiment of them, burning themselves to ash.

Ephrial has never found himself in danger of such, given his Noxian-Ionian principles. The balance instilled in him creates a kindred bond between he and his blade. After already losing everything truly important he once had, is there really anything left that can send him over the edge? With all of his experience, is there anything he has not once faced before?

The swordsman takes a deep breath, resting the blade next to himself. He gives one last wary look around the surrounding area, seeing nothing but darkness and silhouettes of trees, with only the sound crackling campfire and chirping crickets. Lying back down, hands folded behind his head, he shoves the odd visitation aside. With all of the abounding circumstances raising so many mysteries, he focuses on what certainty there is to be had. He must journey back to the Institute of War and find out where the situation stands.

The serenity of the starry night sky is the only peacefulness he has known for some time…and perhaps the last he may know for time to come.


	10. Chapter 10: Trail of Broken Blades

**-  
Chapter 10**

 ** _Trail of Broken Blades_**

A bright afternoon sun beats down on the open fields of Valoran. Puffy clouds of white hover above, and migrating birds take wing along the vast sea of blue. The constant breeze keeps the shining red armor of the traveling swordsman cool as he strides along his path, a small village coming into sight.

Rabbits aren't easy to hunt without a bow, or the time to fashion a suitable trap. Even more so, they are quite flammable and difficult not to overcook when slain by a speeding fireball. Though a sufficient enough meal for now, he needs to gather supplies for the long walk ahead. Nearly any given town hosts a place of trade, and that is just where Ephrial aims as his steps take him closer to the civilization ahead.

He passes by a dilapidating wooden sign reading: "Welcome to Dyregrass Village." The buildings are moderately spaced out, varying from stone to wooden walls, telling differences in means of sustainability. This modest town is still a neighbor to Noxus, after all. Whomever has the strength to build better shelters has the right to survive the harsh peaks of the seasons. This place is far from being as densely populated as the city-state itself, however. With the village being slightly isolated from mainstream news, Ephrial hopes he will not be recognized, allowing him to depart with ease.

As the half-blood continues onward along the main path, he notices a growing trail of destruction. Wooden beams on the porches of homes lie splintered, their awnings crooked under unsupported weight. The dirt of the road is ruffled with footprints belonging to at least a dozen different people, littering the ground with signs of erratic movements. Further still, the signs of violence and struggle become more aggressively apparent. Shards of broken armor and weapons pepper the street, accompanied by the inevitable trail of blood.

The inhabitants of the village are tending to their respective properties, sweeping the debris away with simple straw brooms and steel rakes. Frustrated men assess the damages to their homes, while others glare at the outsider with a mixture of wariness and angst.

"You sure picked quite a time to visit, stranger," a voice calls to him from the side. A man in simple clothing and a freshly bandaged arm approaches.

"Perhaps I should have come earlier." Ephrial stops and answers.

"Aye, if you're that type of soldier of fortune…but this might have been one fight you are glad to have missed. If you are passing through, you'd do well to cover up all that gold on you." The man passes behind him and wearily grabs two wooden posts from a pile, putting the weight on his shoulders before turning back to his broken fence.

He has a point. The gold trim on his armor and sword tends to draw attention in places that are not accustomed to crowds of armored knights, bounty hunters, or adventurers. At the lack of any attraction, quiet towns like this are only used to seeing small parties of such roaming in for a very brief stay. Attention is the last thing Ephrial seeks right now, as it could only leave a trail of word and witness after him, still being too close to Noxus for comfort.

"Is there a place that conducts trade around here?" he looks in the distance, watching two men team-lift a body off of the road ahead.

"If we still have one, it's all the way down, to the right. Can't miss it…what's left of it."

"Much appreciated," he saves his further inquiries of the situation for those closer to the ruin ahead.

As the mercenary-knight proceeds, the destruction becomes increasingly raw. Men and women sit along the sides of the dirt path, wrapping strips of cloth around bloody limbs and foreheads. Others mourn their losses, and watch as the dutiful gather the fallen. Still Noxian in their own right, these people are capable of handling themselves in a brawl, but this was a borderline slaughter. Closer observation sees little difference in the clothing and armor of the dead, turning thoughts in Ephrial's mind to discern this as most likely an internal conflict of Noxus' own people, rather than marauding outsiders.

He nears the last handful of buildings by the edge of the town, turning to his right at the peak of wreckage. Facing him is a wooden structure with a large hole where the front door used to stand. Shattered glass peppers the ground where windows once glared, and a large, broken table lies just outside of the few stairs leading inward. As the swordsman proceeds inside, he observes what he can surmise to be the start of the conflict. Small, decorative paintings of various scenery and historical figures lay torn, covered in the rubble and fragments of their own ornate frames. Portions of the floorboards are sundered, leaving craters that tell of force from crashing bodies, and a weapon of considerable heft.

Ephrial approaches the shopkeeper, a man turning a spilt crate back to its upright position. "I see you've had the misfortune of being in the epicenter of this. Just what happened here?"

The owner dusts his hands off with his dirty brown apron, and turns around to the visitor. "Just old Noxian troubles, son. Judging by your attire, I'd wager you'd be looking for some mercenary work. I'm afraid you're a bit too late for that. Someone already beat you to it."

"I'm just passing through for supplies. …Some _one_ you said?" becoming intrigued at the singularity implied, despite the mass quantity of clear signs indicating a numerous sum of people involved.

"Aye, just one. Though, she was no mercenary, by the looks of things. Didn't ask for anything. Just blew through like a sweeping wind of ferocity."

"What did she look like…?"

"I didn't get a good look at her myself. Everything happened so fast; I barely saved my own neck from being sliced by a flying dagger. But, if I had to guess, she was a militant like the others. She looked the part, from the glance I got. Why would a Noxian soldier help _us_ though…?" starting to lose himself in thought. "Never mind…I must be mistaken."

"I see…" Ephrial ponders, " _Is it possible…?"_

"Well, what's done is done. We're just lucky those filthy sellouts are dead. Now…you said you were after some supplies, did you?"

"Yes, I-" reaching for his money pouch, then remembering his decoy in his prior escape from Noxus. "…I suppose I don't have much to offer." He lays down a few coins, the remaining funds in his possession from before he had joined the League.

The shopkeeper looks at the money, or lack thereof, and raises his brow to give Ephrial a funny look. "Well…I suppose I'd be a fool to turn down your coin after this morning. I can spare you two rations. No more."

"Very well."

The man scrapes the currency off of the counter, then steps over a broken chair on his way around to the back room. Rations are a common set of ready-to-eat meals designed for travel, made popular by wandering sellswords and adventurers alike. They consist of varying provisions, depending on what game is native to the area. Small portions of dried meat, bread, and berries are the typical contents found in basic kits. Higher-grade versions, mostly seen in major cities and prospering trading posts, may include a potion or two, as a bonus to compete with other vendors.

Towing a couple of small sacks of food, barely larger than two fists placed together, the merchant comes back and sets them down in front of his customer.

"Thank you for your patronage."

"Did she say which way she was going?" Ephrial further inquires about the woman.

"Hell if I know. All I heard was bloody screaming and wailing…and that was from the men she was slaughtering! Now, unless you're willing to trade any of that gear you've got on you, namely that sword, I need to get back to fixing this bucket I call a store."

"Fair enough."

Ephrial thanks the shop keeper, and leaves him to his mumbling and cursing as he continues picking up his shattered inventory. Not even a step outside of what used to be a doorway, and a shrieking slices the air, with supplementary commotion following.

"Keep yer distance! One step closer, and I'll slit her pretty little throat in front of all of you!" a belligerent voice threatens.

The visiting half-blood surveys the scene. A growing crowd of villagers widely approach the source of the distress - a disgruntled man in his prime, holding a blood-covered cutlass to a young woman as his hostage. Next to them, two freshly-slain men that fell by his hand.

"Marina!" a young boy stands in front of the two, yelling out with tears in his eyes.

"Robin!" she cries back, her hands just narrowly keeping the arm around her neck from choking her. "It'll be okay, Robin! It'll be-!"

"Shut up, you moll! No one's going to be okay unless I see a pile of cold, hard cash in front of me!" the antagonizing man yanks her back a step, holding the blade even closer.

"Sister!" the boy calls out again, his voice faltering under fear and helplessness. He jumps slightly at the unexpected breeze of a tattered cape gently brushing past.

Ephrial now stands between him and the lingering threat over Dyregrass, stopping a short distance away. He measures up the situation. The innocent captive is no older than eighteen, taking care of her much younger brother. He can tell they have no parents, given the lack of other desperate cries in the crowd that only family can match.

As for the furious man himself, his widened eyes betray him with a look of a different kind of desperation. A crazed expression of a person whose baleful schemes have been shattered, and the denial that comes with it. Such is not without an underlining cause, and that is what the mercenary-knight intends to find out. A cerulean gaze remains silent, piercing the nerve of the malefactor before him. The first words belong to the virulent cutlass.

"Who in the Harrowing Hell are you…!?" a malevolent voice becomes daunted at the sight of another sword-wielding outsider. "Wait…you're with that meddling **_wench_** , aren't you!?" enraged teeth grit.

"I take it you must be quite popular with the ladies, having a silver tongue like that," Ephrial taunts flatly, with a measured disdain.

"Stick it, you cur! This is of no concern of yours!"

"You said you were after gold, did you not? Most criminals would rather cut their losses after a massacre like this one. What is it you are _really_ after?"

The sweaty man's breathing becomes more excited through rage. "…Only the strong should survive!" he spits.

Raising an eyebrow, "Is that why you are hiding behind an unarmed woman?"

"This village has no right to be here! We're the ones that did everything right! We unified under Lord Swain's power of command…! Under promises of power and fortune, we pledged ourselves to him…and what do we get for it!? Inflation, increased tariffs, a bloody sack of grain to last a week! All while High Command plays its **GAMES**!"

"It sounds to me like your problems stem from the commanders of Noxus, not the people of this town."

"This place…it's nothing but a speck, barely noticeable on the map! It could be mistaken for a crumb, fallen from the beard of any of the fools I cut down here today! Noxus is supposed to be unified…stronger. Yet, here, a pathetic excuse for a village stands, mocking everything I've strived for! The meek should be wiped out, not ignored and allowed to taint the name of our nation! Even the rats that live in the slums of Noxus live to our code better than these useless worms! High Command claims to seek unification, yet averts their eyes to the weakness in their own lands. If they won't cull out the weeds that refuse to fall in line, I will!"

"You have something against peace?"

"Peace is nothing but the cry of the feeble-minded!" the man, disgusted at the thought.

Ephrial crosses his arms, taking in everything spoken. "…You say 'only the strong should survive', yet you blame the economy for your misfortune? You follow the faltering ideals of a few madmen, bent on unifying a nation for the sole purpose to conquer all else…then you take it out on a village because you can't hold yourself up?" his voice becomes increasingly indignant. "Of course people are turned into stepping stones as others rise to the top, ascending the ladder formed by the broken backs and aspirations of the many. That is the way it has _always_ been. This Noxian code you claim to live by means you make and achieve your **own** promises…yet you have mistaken hypocrisy for resolve. Swain's general personally slew the greedy nobles he deemed as leeches to the nation's strength, yet they have imposed themselves in their place. Do you earnestly think there can be prosperity without poverty? War is not free, and those in charge would gladly fund it from the pockets and very lives of those so eager to jump on the bandwagon. People construe the pretty words of those in power to appeal to their own ambitions, not realizing they are just being swayed and manipulated, then thrown away. That is the nature of politics, and it did not die with the nobles, nor with Boram Darkwill."

"At least Darkwill shared the same ambition as us! He knew how to identify weakness, and launched our greatest campaign yet—the invasion of Ionia!"

" _That's_ you're depiction of an ideal war? A slaughter on innocent people, from an island nation far and out of the way, to even your own kin in your backyard?! This village may hold no special attraction, thus receives no particular attention, but its self-reliant nature and endurance make it more Noxian than you could ever hope to be."

"Enough!" on the last of his ropes. "I will rid weakness from our nation myself!" holding the curved blade against his hostage's throat.

"Very well…" Ephrial slowly unsheathes his blade, his gaze remaining fixed. "Then start with your own."

He sends his ardent sword spinning in the air, landing it halfway toward the opposition. The flames flicker skyward as the steel sticks into the ground, standing up with an inviting shimmer. Onlookers murmur amongst themselves, looking at the blade, and then its master with suspicion.

"…What…what kind of trickery is this!?"

"Strength is what you seek, is it not? The power to realize your place in Noxus' highest ranks. To cull the chaff from your dream nation." Sternly, in a commanding tone, "Release the girl. Then, see if you truly have what it takes…"

The fiery steel reflects in the Noxian's lust-filled eyes, filling him with enticement of power. A weapon that, by appearance, can be a symbol of status; by might, a symbol of strength. Growing in dark ambition by the second, a maddened grin flashes across his face.

Time slows down for the mercenary-knight. His focus escalates, and the world around him dissolves, leaving just himself, the man, and his captive. The only sound in the empty stillness is his own heartbeat. It's almost just like before…long ago, in a memory far from forgotten. His eyes narrow, the deep-seated fervor in the calm waters revealing itself. With many variations having played in his mind of different outcomes, it's almost as it was once before…his sister…and the wolf.

He is fully aware of the reality of the situation, and the past will remain the same, being far from his grasp to change. It doesn't matter. He has practiced this very scenario time and time again in his mind. However, the Blazing Swordsman cannot predict his desperate enemy's next movements, and the result of the situation can turn into a number of outcomes.

No…it can only end _one_ way. He won't let it happen otherwise. Not again… **_Never_** again.

Like the sudden release of an arrow, time speeds up again, and the value of every fraction of a second soars. The power-hungry Noxian throws the innocent girl ahead of himself, sending her stumbling toward the flaming sword. Like a mobile human shield, she falters in front of the man, aimed at obstructing Ephrial as he dashes in response. Each driven by the contents of their own convictions, the two men leap for a five-step race of conflicting ideals.

Five; they stride forward, both with their eyes fixed on the fiery prize ahead of them…

Four, the girl staggers further, blocking Ephrial's view of her assailant…

Three, the cutlass reveals itself, raising above the young woman's frame. It winds up to claim her life as she trips over her own feet, falling to the ground, her face filled with terror…

Two… An opening appears, but so narrowly, leaving no room for even a slight mistake… A hand extends forward from each swordsmen, just inches away from the hilt of the blade still shrouded in mystery. Is what the cloaked visitor from before said true…? Would it devour the Noxian in the flames of his own misguided desires, should he reach the blade first? If so, now is not the time to find out.

The blade flares up in response to the approaching wills. A single chance…that's all that life allows. If only…if only…

One.

With a flash of steel and flame, blood splashes on the path. The girl lies on the floor, right in front of a patch of cindered ground. A solid grip holds the sword at the end of an upward killing stroke. The body of the Noxian disgrace flies backward a pace, falling to his fate like his comrades before him.

The outcome is as expected…predictable. This man was no true warrior, much less a monstrous Zaunite product of man and concoction. Ephrial turns back to look at the victim of the conflict, watching her collect herself and slowly recover to sit upright.

He was wrong. It's not like it was long ago after all. Though glad for her safety, he otherwise feels indifferent. There was still similarity in this predicament to the night he had lost his own sister… The presence of Noxian prejudice, the out-of-place villain, the innocent victim. However, it just wasn't the same…how could it be? This isn't years ago. This wasn't Warwick. Even if it was, it doesn't change the past. It changes nothing…at least, not for him.

Ephrial watches as the brother and sister reunite in a clumsy embrace. The bond of last remaining family ties clearly presents itself in an emotional scene. Such a sight should resonate deeply with him, but still, he remains unfazed. It's not that he doesn't care, but rather, he doesn't see his own situation in theirs. For a moment, he thinks to himself before deciding on an action.

They are still Noxian… The boy's helplessness will not be tolerated by those that would threaten his life, or his sister's. More importantly, it _cannot_ be tolerated by his own self, if he is to defend anything or anyone he cares about.

The half-blooded swordsman looks at the cutlass left by its former owner, and picks it up from the ground. While sheathing his own blade, he swings the blood off of the other, and begins walking toward the siblings. He kneels in front of them, getting on eye-level with the boy, tears still swelling in his young eyes. Ephrial, with a certain gaze of grave directness, holds the cutlass with one hand over the middle of the sharp edge. After asserting eye-contact, he holds the sword forward, presenting it to the young pureblood.

"If you wish to protect your sister, take it. Turn the weapon of your enemy against them. There is no other way," experience imparts a clear, Noxian-sided message.

Without a word, the boy's face steels itself slightly, and he grabs the hilt of the blade with both hands, pulling to receive it with the birth of a new resolve. It refuses to budge, as if lodged in stone. He locks eyes with the Blazing Swordsman once more.

"To defend. … ** _Only_** to defend," the Ionian half completes the lesson, then releases the sword and rises to his feet, leaving the new swordsman to contemplate silently.

An exterior view might mistake this for Ephrial setting the young boy on the same path as himself. In fact, it is the contrary. Fortunately for them, they'll never know what it is to truly feel like an outsider in the place they were born. By preventing the terrible event from unfolding itself upon his sister, the mercenary-knight has spared the boy from walking the same path he has tread, and continues to follow. They have a home, and they have each other. They have their place in the world.

"…H…how can we thank you…?" the girl meekly asks as the mercenary-knight turns away.

"You don't need to," he starts toward the edge of town.

"Are…are you with that woman from earlier…?"

He stops and looks back. "This woman has sure left an impression here. Tell me, what do you know of her?" his interest rekindling.

"Nothing. She was kind of…like you. She helped us, even though she didn't have to, and asked nothing of us in return."

"Did she say anything at all?"

"Not to us directly, but…I think I heard her say something about…'the greater good', if that makes any sense."

Ephrial ponders an unlikely theory, "Hm…"

"She definitely looked like she's from Noxus. She shattered through their armor and weapons like glass…" the girl scans the view of the aftermath and metal shards. "Her hair was white, and…"

"Is there something further?" hanging on the edge of anticipation for just one last uncanny resemblance.

"Well…it looked like her sword was broken, too."

"Which way did she go?"

Marina slowly raises her arm to point in the direction of the littered road he was already traveling.

"I see… Thank you."

The Blazing Swordsman turns his gaze back to the path ahead of him, determination burning in his eyes. With sure-foot steps, he resumes his departure.

Somewhere just ahead lies his self-imposed mission, just beyond the trail of broken blades.


	11. Chapter 11: Noxian Diplomacy

**-  
Chapter 11**

 ** _Noxian Diplomacy_**

A long day's walk has drained the sun, leaving the moon to take its place. Stars glitter above, and crickets chirp loudly. It is a lengthy way to the next village, and the grassy stretch of land now belongs to the creatures of Valoran.

In the distance, a silhouette emerges, speeding Ephrial's way. He squints his eyes, focusing on the form clouded in the cover of night. It grows closer, the frame becoming more distinct.

"A horse…but no rider," he examines.

The stallion keeps a straight line, charging at full-speed. With plenty of experience in the wilderness, the swordsman knows a spooked animal when he sees one. As it gallops closer, he notices the loose reins fluttering with the horse's movements, marking it as a tamed steed.

Ephrial lowers his stance and moves to a neighboring bush, crouching behind its leafy cover. He waits as the speeding mount gets closer, preparing himself to intercept the four-legged transportation. As the horse tramples by, the mercenary-knight leaps from its flank, grabbing hold of the saddle, and using the momentum of the horse to swing his leg over as it pulls him with it.

"Yep…one of Noxus'…" he strains a murmur to himself, enduring the act of being taken for a rough ride by a very sturdy horse, as it attempts to buck him off.

Using the horn of the saddle, he pulls himself forward and manages to fix himself into the seat on the mount. A gloved hand reaches for the reins and pulls back. The hulking purebred arches with it, yet still refuses to slow its pace.

"Alright, you…I've no intentions of backtracking the ground I've already covered…" Ephrial stretches forward, sacrificing stability for reach.

Carefully maintaining his balance, he leans himself over the flowing mane of the animal, and rests his torso on its neck. Aiming for a more assertive measure, he places his hands over the horse's eyes, blinding its view. His assertive endeavor yields instant results, and the panicked creature tears up the ground beneath it as it grinds to a halt with a loud whinny.

Without proper bracing, Ephrial is tossed forward, off of the steed's back, and tumbles along the ground. Long-ingrained reflexes roll with the motion, but only does so much with the unorthodox angle from which he hit the ground. Foliage flings into the air until he flops to a stop. The staggering mercenary recovers to his feet, shaking off the disorientation. The horse bucks in place at first, but gradually winds down, associating the calm human presence with lack of danger.

"Couldn't make it easy, could you?" Ephrial reproaches the stallion a funny look.

A Noxian purebred replies with a light snort, a hint of visible steam puffing out of its large nostrils.

The swordsman pats the dust and loose blades of grass off of himself as he steps toward the horse. "Okay…we'll pretend that didn't happen," brushing a large leaf off of his head. "Now, let's see what sent _you_ , a Noxian warhorse, running away."

He places his foot on a stirrup and climbs the saddle, settling in the proper way, and taking the reins in his firm grip. Pulling to the side, he steers the stallion toward the direction it had come. With a whip of the leather straps, and an encouraging heel to the sides, the two speed onward.

Ephrial's eyes remain wary for any signs of distress as he rides forward. The wind tosses his organized mess of hair around, and hooves clad in steel leave their mark on the ground below. A short distance past the point the knight had caught his ride, and he notices a plume of smoke rising above the horizon ahead. He leans forward, streamlining himself with the horse's frame, and gives one more heel to speed up.

Sounds of a skirmish begin arising, and a sight of a caravan troop appears. A rampaging flock of raptors assault struggling men, swarming them on all sides, armed with large talons and piercing beaks. A defensive ring has been formed around the remains of the broken vehicle, part of it burning from a stray lantern in the hands of a slain military escort.

The journeying swordsman blazes through the circle of feral beasts, forcing the stallion on course. He draws his blade, sweeping it through the feathered foes, letting the speed of his transport do most of the work as he breaks the enemy line.

Ephrial drops off the mount, leaving it to its own devices, and positions himself alongside the defending men and women of a Noxian company. Cerulean eyes quickly scan the situation, taking account of the remaining combatants and their weapons in hand.

Twelve people remain, only three of them are armed escorts, and the rest of them are civilians that deal with trade. This is clearly a simple merchant expedition gone wrong, only prepared to fight simple bandits, rather than the monsters that dominate the night. Sometimes traveling under the cover of nocturne hours holds the advantage of being unseen by rings of highwaymen, but at the risk of running into more primal threats. This scene, however, is simply unprecedented.

"Pull the line in! Let the caravan act as a wall!" Ephrial barks, pointing at those closest to the flaming debris.

"Who the hell are you!?" an armored guard scowls beneath the shade of a speared raptor.

Ephrial lashes his blade out in front of them, launching a bolt of fire toward a group of four fiends. It collides with the one in the center, a direct hit, blasting with a ring of swirling flames. The clustered creatures close to the discharge are caught in its fervor, getting knocked down with concussive force. Another raptor leaps out from the flank, in a surprise attack from above. The collected swordsman counters with a solid left hook to its beak, knocking it out, and saving his sword to pierce a sneaky addition, halting its attempt to sprint past their defense.

A disapproving scowl turns itself around, relaying orders to the traders and remaining escorts. "Bring in the line! Form with the caravan!"

The rallying survivors slowly backed themselves into a tighter circle, letting the broken vehicle serve as an obstruction to make up for lost numbers. Together, the men and women fight alongside each other, turning the tide with decisive instruction.

"Archers, position yourselves to the rear flank!" Ephrial sends them as reinforcements to the spears holding the back. "Shields, push forward!"

Ravenous, birdlike creatures screech as their numbers dwindle, weapons tearing away at their plumes and flesh. Bloody moments pass, and the remaining stragglers retreat back into the blanket of a nearby forest.

The traders catch their breaths around the littered ruins of their shipment, watching as the last part of a severed load burns away. A couple of them, most likely in charge of the expedition, begin taking inventory of what can be salvaged. The captain of the escort approaches the intervening mercenary-knight.

"That was a true display of the might of Noxus. Then again…you're not truly Noxian, are you?" a firm voice shows aggression.

The captain raises his weapon toward Ephrial, and his two men respond by surrounding the mercenary-knight.

"I see Noxian hospitality hasn't lost its signature touch."

"Silence, half-blood! I know who you are. Anyone with access to a crystal screen or a spinning wire knows your face now."

"Well then, I guess I don't have to tell you where to address the 'thank you' card to," the mercenary-knight sheathes his burning blade.

"Your kind doesn't belong on Noxus soil! That is, if any more of you remain hidden somewhere."

"Then why the hesitation?" Ephrial glares.

The two escorts exchange glances with each other, before turning their gaze to their commanding officer. He holds his silence, beaming at the swordsman with conflict in his eyes.

"…Very well. I'll explain it aloud for you," the half-blood continues. "The situation to where you owe your life to a half-Ionian stings you to the very bone; a shame that will not be taken lightly to your superiors. Even now, you're thinking you can kill me and fabricate a story of glory and honor, assuming you can cough up the coin to keep these traders quiet. Perhaps your military salary might cover it, or you can silence them with your blades, but there is still the manner of investigation as to why a rather large shipment did not reach its destination whole. A shipment under _your_ supervision. That might cause officers to question your capability…and your rank. You'd only be trading one shame for another," Ephrial's unwavering eyes piercing into the mind of the perspiring soldier.

"I-!" he chokes out.

"It'll be tough to explain the litter of scorched birds, not to mention the group of trained Noxian soldiers, whose cause of death were not by a blade, but by fiend. Conflicting details that will have you constantly changing your story as to how you encountered a League's champion, all of whom have faced far worse than your lance, and managed to overpower him _and_ a horde of raptors at the same time. No matter how you try, a messy situation will only become more messy as you use one lie to cover up another. Whether they make you a public example, or do so quietly in secret, the execution for your embarrassment is inevitable. If you think your military standing will save your neck with diplomacy, I encourage you to remember how the Hand of Noxus deals with such disgrace."

"Don't think—!"

"Yet, that brings us to the real problem at hand for you… How likely do you think you are to make it that far?"

"You…!" the man clenches in fury. He reluctantly lowers his spear and growls at those following his orders. "None of you saw anything but raptors here. Is that understood?"

The guards hesitantly lower their weapons and step away. They nod in acknowledgment of their captain, but with internal confliction. Word of Ephrial's past deeds have spread widely, as do many backgrounds of the League's champions. He isn't fond of Noxus, and the city-state even less so of him, yet, here they stand; an uncomfortable turn of events, forcing the soldiers to stay their arms.

The Blazing Swordsman turns around, resuming his path once again.

"…The two of you are the real disgraces to Noxus," the captain can't help but mutter.

Ephrial stops in his tracks, strongly suspecting the implication in his words. "…Which way?"

"Why would I tell you a—"

The mercenary-knight turns over his shoulder with a fiery stare.

"Into the woods!" he corrects himself, pointing toward the trees the raptors were last seen fleeing towards.

With a new course, the warrior glances at the Noxian stallion, and calls it over with a sharp whistle. The mount responds immediately, trotting over to his side, and allows him to climb aboard.

"I'll be borrowing him," Ephrial speaks to the irked soldier without turning his head.

He steers into the appointed direction, and a trader sheepishly approaches him from behind.

"So it really _is_ you? The 'Blazing Newcomer' from the League?" clearly a fan of the widely-broadcasted spectacle. "A word to the wise…: if you're after her for what she did to your people, you might want to wait for a Judgement match…" hinting at the notion of irreversible death outside of the Fields of Justice.

The words itch in his mind. _'Your people…'_ His kind is long gone. Wiped out by the relentless pursuit of oppression, under a banner that claims "honor" in its campaigns. Noxus…Ionia…he has no genuine connection to call either people his own. It's just as Senior Summoner Lessa said in the Chamber of Judgement… By choosing to side himself with the Exile, he has severed any possible connections with Ionia. At least for now. Whatever changes that lie in wait can only be brought by following this path. It is the only one left for him with a possible destination.

"The League has kept justice waiting long enough," the horse begins moving forward.

"She's no damsel in distress, y'know!" the merchant shouts from behind.

With determination and fervor brewing in his eyes, Ephrial whips the reins and proceeds onward at full speed, leaving no doubt to slow him down.

"I'm counting on it."


	12. Chapter 12: The Exile

**-  
Chapter 12**

 ** _The Exile_**

Twigs and foliage crackle loudly underneath the heavy hooves of the black stallion. The trees grow dense and the surroundings grow darker with every gallop, as the starry light above fails to permeate the towering branches of living shade. Signs of struggle leave a disarrayed trail of feathers and shredded bark.

Fresh footprints, one of them clearly a human's. Almost there…just a bit further ahead.

A flank of the ravenous birds of prey form up behind him, split from the pack. Two on his left, and two trailing behind, moving between the trees like the shadows of night. Coarse screeches call back and forth between the group of hunters, echoing varying pitches and alternating frequencies of each chirp and cry. They're coordinating; plotting their movement as they seemingly force the warhorse to sway to the right, guiding it to their advantage.

The menacing silhouettes move in closer, their eyes reflecting red in the breaks of starlight seeping through narrow spaces of the canopy of leaves above. Being aggressively spooked by the vicious shrills advancing further, the steed moves faster, but stops responding to the mercenary's directions.

"Come on, stay on course just a bit longer. The clearing ahead is just—"

A shrieking raptor charges in from the right, zipping unseen through the row of bushes they were pushed to.

Ephrial catches the glimpse of the hunting creature as it lunges toward him. "…Clever girl."

A set of razor talons tackles the stallion, sending the rider tumbling across the darkened forestry. Breaking itself free from the frenzy, the stallion kicks the assaulting predator, and runs off. The swordsman rolls with the ground and picks himself up, just in time to see the flanking two-legged creatures shift course into his direction. Deft boots begin speeding toward the brightened clearing ahead, as if running toward the light in a dark tunnel.

The wailing and hissing grows louder as they gain on him. There's no way he will be able to outrun the flightless avians of the dark. Then again, he didn't come this far by running away from fights.

With his hand firmly clasped over the glittering hilt, he runs forward. His eyes are fixed to the destination ahead, but his focus remains on the pursuing foes behind. There it is; the shrill screech that rings from their jagged beaks as they leap onto their target.

A twist of his foot, and he abruptly turns his body around. With it, a bisecting cut scorches through the raptor in mid-lunge. The fallen foe lands sloppily, and the other creatures maintain their charge, splitting to attack at three separate angles. Dodge to the left? Feint to the right? There's no room for hesitation, and he decides to take all three out of the equation at once. The ardent swordsman scrapes his blade along the leaf-covered ground behind himself, igniting a line of rapidly burgeoning fire.

Razor beaks hinge wide-open, hungry caws sprinting straight for him. Having only two legs makes for a predictable form of attack, and the swordsman makes good use of it. The raptors lurch in the air for him, and the mercenary-knight ducks underneath, rolling along the ground. The leaves and small twigs shake off of his tattered cape as he recovers to his feet, turning to the engaging creatures, now stumbling over each other to escape a pool of burning foliage.

His use of a destructive element is not without awareness to his surroundings. A neighboring tree begins to falter to a precision cut; an angle setting the descent of the tower of nature crashing over the heads of the burning avians. Using a stumbling raptor as a springboard, he jumps onto its back, propelling himself forward, and out of the way of the incoming trunk. The oak smashes into the trio of vicious birds, while smothering the flames to preserve the forest.

Echoes of screeches, each running a different pitch, frequency, and pattern, flood the darkened air, creating a loud warzone of beast against man…and woman.

There she is, just ahead. Feathered bodies of fallen birds of prey litter the ground beneath her feet. A broken blade carves through the advancing enemies like a knife through the main course of a holiday feast, that characteristic smolder of battle ever present in her eyes.

It's a scene of déjà vu for Ephrial, approaching as she fights with Noxian might embedded into the very fibers of her being. An incomplete blade rises, and a flash of green magic stops the circle of enemies in close proximity where they stand. An acrobatic flip into the air, and the warrior crashes her weapon on the frontmost foe, cleaving straight through it, and into the ground. A resulting shockwave tears at the earth around her, knocking the rest of the flightless birds off their feet. Strong, agile, ruthless…and dangerously outnumbered, an exiled soldier demonstrates her might.

Could she take on the remaining family of raptors by herself? Perhaps, perhaps not. However, the half-blooded swordsman did not embark this endeavor to find out. Headlong, he rushes to her side, the flames rising to the challenge.

He begins mowing down a cluster of enemies too distracted with the hopes of seizing an opening on the Noxian exile. The eruption of blindsided raptors catches the attention of the rest of the pack, as well as the glance of the infamous woman.

Fervorous strikes slice through the fiends, cutting an opening to the Exile's position. A distance is kept between the two, giving each other a copious amount of room to fight with their respective techniques. Such is the unspoken token of respect between two unacquainted warriors. Yet, these two are not completely unacquainted…

Ravenous vectors of death creep back and forth in the rear of their ranks, figuring which angle is best to charge in on. The onslaught of red-eyed monsters continues to throw themselves into charged blades of might.

Like a blender raging against the doomed contents within, the pair of sword-wielding travelers liquefy the rampaging beasts' offense. Stragglers dance between the surrounding layers of trees, angrily glaring at the two with their seemingly luminescent eyes.

A deafening wail, far larger than the others before it, shreds the air like cloth. The caws and cries of the remaining raptors fall silent, and look up in alert at the direction of the sound. The swordsmen keep their guard up, equally curious as to the sudden change in the ambience. A brief pause passes by, and the fowls disappear into the woods, scattering away.

Trampling and snapping of thick branches turn the heads of the warriors back to the origin of the disruption, and they watch as a gargantuan raptor emerges from the darkness. Something large dangles from its serrated beak; a familiar black horse swings like a ragdoll with every step the creature takes.

Roving talons stop at the bloody scene, gazing at the sea of its kin lying in ruin. Its eyes, as yellow-green as glowing fireflies, turn to the two with a cold stare. Its jaws release the slain mount, letting it drop to the grass as if forgetting about its meal completely.

Everything is different about this one…everything is wrong. Its feathers are ragged, ruffled in a way that seems as if the plumage is degrading off of its body. The saliva oozing from its mouth is a sickly, unnatural green. Not to mention the sheer size of the creature is a peculiar anomaly in its own, at least five times the size of the previous encounters.

It starts with a low hiss, speedily rising to a piercing squawk, and the beast lets out a rampage. It charges straight for them, its razor nails tearing up the earth with each step. Stampeding feet take it toward its closer target – Riven. She braces; her teeth clench and the gauntlet's grip tightens. Her eyes are lost in a different battle. They are direct, yet show conflict between survival instinct and instilled discipline. It's the same way as someone may stare down an inner demon, only this is no reflection of one's past. It's certain death, right here in the present, in the form of a corrupted creature.

She raises her broken blade, ready to meet the monster head on, the Noxian way. The razor beak unhinges into a bizarrely broad span, ready for a lightning-fast snap. A bolting streak of flames interrupts the raptor, knocking its head to the side, and altering its path to a stumbling near-miss with the runic blade.

 _"_ _What was that…? That was way too direct of an approach…even for her,"_ Ephrial comments in his mind.

The Exile shoots him a vexed, frustrated glare, and a shrill wailing calls their attention once more. As big as it is, it still has a massive disadvantage with being a tall, bipedal creature without arms.

With watchful eyes, Ephrial races to the raptor alongside Riven. As the distance between them and the raging beast shortens, they split, dividing its attention. Taking turns, they alternate cutting at the legs of the monster, and dodging its natural armory of razors. Swords, empowered by arcane spells, speedily chip away at the integrity of the creature's joints and stamina.

The irregular raptor falters to a knee, unable to support its own weight any longer. She takes it upon herself to deal the finishing blow, with exasperation in her strike. A decapitating slice silences the ear-splitting screams. That stillness takes the space for several moments, as the tension of the air appears to change.

"You're a hard woman to get ahold of… Are you okay…?" Ephrial says in between huffs, gradually regulating his breaths with Ionian disciplines.

That angry glare flashes again. "This was not your fight!"

"I see Noxian gratitude remains the same no matter who it is."

"If they defeated me in battle, they would deserve to win!" Her eyes retreat to the ground beneath her and close, the heavy gauntlet tensing. "Only the strong survive…!" her voice gives the most subtle of quivers, shaken by memories and regrets.

Ephrial pauses with a degree of perplexity. "Have you learned nothing all this time…? Don't even Noxian soldiers call in for reinforcements when things begin to waver? The League, too, demonstrates the futility of rushing all-out on your own."

"I didn't ask for reinforcements."

"I insisted."

"Who are you to insist yourself upon others!?" she looks at him with bitter disapproval.

"You really don't remember me, do you…? Hm…no matter. We did not exactly so much as exchange names when we had first met."

"I don't remember many of the faces in my travels. Most of them did not live long enough to leave a memory."

"Sounds like a tough journey, running away from so much," a genuinely sympathetic remark, one in contrast to his own travels in search of the lycan of Zaun.

"I'm not running away…! …I'm through running," a mixture of emotions streaming through her.

"I hope that doesn't mean throwing your life away, just because Noxus seems to think there is further honor to be found in death."

"What concern do you have over what happens to me?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked. However, I must hear it from your lips first... What is your intent with the League?"

"Why do you—"

"Humor me."

Her eyes turn to the sea of diseased raptors in a thoughtful pause. "…I once thought I fought for something. A vision; strength in its purest form. It was a lie."

"So where does that leave you?"

"…I have to get back to the Institute," she rises up straight, taking a step toward the West.

"Then I'm going with you."

"I don't need your help."

"With the growing number of members of the Institute after your head, I would beg to differ."

"What interest could you possibly have in my intentions?"

Ephrial takes a deep breath, gathering the unpleasant thoughts that would even the tone between the two.

"…Like you, I also fought for a vision. Though, the more I traveled, the more it began feeling like a delusion. All I really wanted was a place where my sister would be free to be herself, in peace. Noxian prejudice, and the hostility left by the old wars, rendered that virtually impossible."

"Why didn't you just take her to Demacia?"

"Demacia doesn't take kindly to Noxians, even if they are refugees."

"Noxians…? I thought you were fleeing from Noxus?" her curiosity becomes piqued.

"Yes, well…the city-state isn't exactly fond of our other half. We may have been born in Noxus, but we are no less Ionian to them."

" _Ionian…?_ "

"Yeah… I'm a half-blood. If any others remain in this world, they'll only admit to being one or the other, suiting to their survival."

The tone in her voice takes a sullen shift. "The things I did in Ionia… Why would _you_ want to help **_me?_** "

Ephrial pauses, meeting her gaze directly. "Tell you what… When you give me a direct response of your aim in all of this, I'll give you my reasons."

"You have more _reasons_ to want to kill me than those whom you had mentioned. How am I to trust you, much less your interest in the state of Noxus?"

The mercenary-knight shrugs. "I thought five minutes ago was a pretty good start," reminding her of their surroundings, littered with fallen predators. "Besides, I have equal cause to not trust any Noxian, seeing as how they all want _me_ dead."

"How can you be so sure I'm not among them?"

"Well, we haven't started killing each other yet," he smirks, attempting to lighten the tone.

Her hardened visage has softened over the course of their conversation, unwitting to her. Riven becomes silent with conflicting thoughts. Guilt, uncertainty, and longing for her long-lost comrades washes over her. She had spent much time alone, traveling aimlessly around Valoran, hoping to find a part of herself that she had lost. Even after moving into the Institute of War, she has remained fiercely independent. The mere thought of traveling with a man who claims to share her interests, while sharing a lineage with those often found at the business side of her weapon, does not sit well with her.

"Choose your own path!" she resolves with a sharp soldier's gaze.

"I take that as a firm 'no', then?"

Riven replies only with her silence, and begins on her way.

"Guess I'll just have to follow you."

"You're the stubborn type, aren't you," she turns around once more with an exasperated stomp on the ground, in reflection of her displeasure.

"Probably. It might explain why I've lived this long."

The Exile sighs. "…Do as you wish. Yet, understand this: I will not slow down for the likes of you."

"Of course. That wouldn't be very Noxian of you if you did, now would it?" A grin fades as a thought flashes across his mind. "Before we proceed, there is just one thing I need to do first."

"Already…?" a silvery, impatient eyebrow furrows.

She watches him curiously as he walks across to the site of the fallen warhorse. With a quick swipe of his blade, the remains catch flame, and the surrounding patch of foliage swiftly becomes a funeral pyre. Ephrial sheathes his blade, and then begins in the direction of the institute, walking past Riven.

"What was that for?" she asks, bewildered.

He stops, and a tactful seriousness finds its way in his voice again. "That's the Noxian custom for warriors that fall in battle, is it not? He ran from the fight, quite contrary to his nature. Yet, with a little coaxing, he returned to the field again, making all the difference. Horses are broken before they are used to serve…but it doesn't mean they are lost. They always know which direction they truly want to go."

The Exile looks at the mercenary-knight, not knowing quite how to measure him up. Swimming in a sea of uncertainties, she falls to the mentality of her training. As her drill sergeant taught her, there are many things going on in a battle, but you can only do one thing at a time. She focuses on her self-imposed mission, yet a familiar feeling tugs at her. Faint, but not entirely unwelcome.

It's been so long since she's had another sword at her side, rather than poised against her.


	13. Chapter 13: Chosen Path

**-  
Chapter 13**

 ** _Chosen Path_**

"That would certainly elucidate the gargantuan bird of death," Ephrial examines an abandoned pile of drums bearing chemical byproducts.

Riven kneels down to look at the side of one of the containers, glaring at a label that has not yet fully corroded away. "Zaun..." she reads through gritting teeth.

The mercenary takes note of the aggression in her voice. The few details recorded in the summoners' briefings on the League's champions are written from an outside perspective, and not from the point of view of the subjects themselves. Her past is no secret, yet the true nature of her resolve escapes the understanding of those other than herself.

"We should get moving. The Institute may need all the help it can get. If it still stands, that is."

Riven raises herself upright, and takes a scrutinizing scan of her surroundings, paying mind to any possible trails of further Zaunite activities. The chaotic city-state is known to leave a messy wake of their reckless and unorthodox conduct. A set of toxic barrels around this area is not entirely out of the ordinary, seeing as how Zaun and Noxus share an alliance. Witnessing the blatant disregard for the very land of her beloved nation only adds to her discontent with such an arrangement.

The two pick up on their journey again, surrounded by the vast viridian fields of Noxus' Western province. Isolated journeys of their respective wayward years have made both warriors accustomed to traveling solitarily. Such reclusiveness will only prove to be counter-productive, and Ephrial attempts to shift things into a more cooperative atmosphere

"So... I take it you, too, were teleported in the middle of Noxus during the attack?"

"Yes."

"You've been involved with the League longer than I. Any ideas of what could have gone wrong?"

"No."

"I see. Where were you during the event?"

"Fighting."

"Is there a chance you could be a little more...responsive than one-word answers?"

"You were the one that decided to join me. I travel alone. That's the way it has been. The way it should be..." her voice trails off.

"Why do you insist on being alone?"

"I told you - only the strong survive!"

"The Noxian way, is it? Though, I don't recall isolation being a key factor in the code."

"This is my path! Mine alone! You may tag along, but you don't understand what it truly means..."

Ephrial pauses, taking in the spirit of her words. "...You're right. I do not know what this truly means to you. However, I chose to ally myself with you for reasons that belong to myself, as selfish as it might sound."

"I don't like being used for the purposes of others..." she glares, remembering the betrayal she had felt during the invasion.

"I've no intentions of 'using' you. I merely wish to quell the violent storm Noxus has stirred."

"Then why not join Ionia?"

"They see Noxus for what it is, and rightfully so. However, they do not see what it _can_ be. Perhaps, even what it was _meant_ to be."

The self-imposed exile's hostility begins dissolving with a kindling, but wary curiosity. "What do you know of how Noxus is meant to be?"

"Well, I suppose being raised under relentless oppression and prejudice made it easy to see how much of a lie the Noxian creed really was...-is," he corrects himself. "It did, however, give me time to think of how things could have been if such an ideal was held true to its word."

"...I see."

"...What of you? Noxus clearly means more to you than anyone."

Riven halts her steps, holding a silence in deep thought. She loves her homeland, having taken orders and fought mercilessly without question. Her unwavering devotion became salted with doubt during the infamous invasion and occupation of their neighboring island-nation. A long period of aimless travel in solitude has allowed such questions to turn in her mind, yet has never crafted a distinct answer. Even when asked why she wanted to join the League at her judgement session, she could barely muster up a response for the inquiring summoner. The dense cloud of emotions inside her begins stirring.

"...It is my home...and I will save it from what it has become..." a complexity of determination and inner-conflict.

"That, among other things, sets you apart from other Noxians."

"I'm not the only one loyal to my nation."

"No. However, your sights are set inward, as opposed to the other zealots you have in mind. Sure, perhaps not all denizens of the city-state may agree with Noxus' present condition and leadership. Yet, you're the only one taking a direct stand; and by yourself, no less. A true Noxian standing up for the true Noxian way. I would not be surprised if you've collected an underground following within the very walls of that place."

"You praise me highly for someone who doesn't like Noxians."

"Rules always have those few exceptions, I suppose," Ephrial titters.

"What makes me an exception, exactly?" she asks for a direct answer.

"…Your eyes."

A small flinch in shock at an unexpected mote of what she perceives as flattery, "Excuse me?"

"From our first encounter, though you do not remember it, you looked at me like an equal. The way an honorable warrior acknowledges another, on or off the field of battle. Your eyes did not change, even after learning that I am a half-blood. No contempt...no prejudice."

Riven thinks upon his words; their trial-forged meaning seeping into her mind like rain on a patch of dry earth. "...You fight with direct intent in every move. There are no signs of hesitation in your strikes, and no trace of weakness, even when surrounded. Of course I would not disdain you." A grin flashes across her face. "You're wrong about one thing, though."

The mercenary raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

She turns to him. "I _do_ remember you. Not everyone wields a blade of fire, after all."

"Of course," he snickers lightheartedly, resting a hand on the elegant hilt. "Everyone recalls the flaming sword."

Her brief smile dissipates, her tone returning to grave remembrance. "You said something that day...'strength has to have a purpose other than death'... Did you mean that?"

Ephrial smirks, having somewhat recently seen that very moment play out vividly in the Institute's chamber of Judgement. "Yes. ...However, I don't think that statement alone does justice to what I believe in."

"What is it you believe in, then?" further analyzing the mercenary-knight.

The ardent swordsman sighs deeply, gathering a slew of lessons and insight gained through vast experience and hardship. As a living product of opposite natures joined together, having had the task of forging a balance out of the resulting chaos within himself, he bears the answer in the form of an observant simplicity.

"Strength is like a flame. Properly guided and looked after, it's light in the darkness. Without that, it only consumes."

The self-exile lets the words churn in her mind, finding solid truths in them on a variety of levels. Strength had once consumed her, executing commands and opponents in battle, without moral or ethical pause. For so long, she had followed the principle that might makes right. Ephrial's creed does not contradict that Noxian principle, but rather, completes it. True strength is not all about being able to overpower others, but to be able to conquer one's self. Strength to choose one's own path; not to let it be chosen for them. Strength to determine one's **_own_** value.

"...You speak like a well-disciplined blade cuts. Your words are steeled with certainty and a reaching depth." Riven exhales, giving her spontaneous ally another thought. "...Very well. I will accept your assistance. Also, I will try to be...easier to cooperate with."

"I appreciate that."

The acquainted legends exchange a friendly nod, then resume walking the long stretch of grass ahead of them. Two paths converge, each born of unlikely conditions and events. Both seek the same destinations for different reasons, and their understanding of each other has only just begun.

Ephrial's cerulean eyes look onward, his mind delving into the thought of what lies ahead. After a long pursuit, the alliance he had hoped to achieve has finally been forged. Yet, the real challenges lie just on the horizon. Once their alignment is made known, word will spread fast, especially through the League. It's as good as official now; any route involving a partnership with Ionia has been sundered for the sake of a greater outcome, though far more difficult to attain. That suits him just fine. For so long, he has endured the hatred, violence, and isolation brought upon him by his mere existence. Though, things appear to be different now...

He looks to his side, at his new partner. She has held up to the hopeful suspicions he had built so far. The answers he still seeks behind his sister's tragedy remain tied to the endeavors that lie ahead, though seemingly connected to far more than he had ever thought. The Zaunite chemists and Noxian legacy of tyrants responsible for destroying so much will answer for their abominations of war and death. Now begins his true journey; a war against outnumbering odds.

Only this time, he is not alone.


	14. Chapter 14: The Messenger

**-  
Chapter 14**

 ** _The Messenger_**

The sun sets in the West, turning the skies into a sea of orange shades as darkness begins swallowing the last of the day. A heavy wind scrapes along the grass and branches of the distant trees, sending foliage skipping across the open space.

Lying prone on the edge of an overlooking hill, the pair survey a bandit camp with a decently fortified defense in an impromptu site.

"That's rather organized for a band of brigands that just happened to get lucky," Ephrial says, taking note of the patrolling watchmen.

"It's not every day they manage to successfully intercept anything associated with the Institute. They're just being careful."

"Relics are one thing…but an actual summoner? I know the woman said she didn't witness the whole event, but the Institute must be in very bad shape to send out such an ill-suited convoy to protect their own."

"We can ask him for the details, if he's still alive," Riven watches the sun relinquish the last of its hold on the day.

"He's alive. There's no doubt about that."

"What makes you so sure?"

"No one would waste all that time preparing defenses for a dead man. They're waiting for something…or some _one_."

"A ransom…? That's suicide! No one in their right minds would openly declare any form of offense against the Institute. It would only result in their own destruction by the elite summoners sent to respond to the incident."

"Exactly. Which brings only two conclusions to mind: Either the Institute is in that desperate of a situation, where gangs are confident it can't afford to take care of such matters, or…"

Waiting for an answer, "Or what, Ephrial?"

"Or, this is meant to be a quiet matter, in which they are waiting for whomever is behind the assault on the Institute itself. Perhaps an arrangement of some sort."

"How should we proceed? Wait for them to show up to see who's responsible?"

Taking another moment to analyze the varying courses of actions and their consequences. "…No. The risk is too great, and the time we have to spare, too little. They could be interrogating the summoner for sensitive information as we speak."

"Then I hope you have a plan for getting us in," she looks at the walls built of freshly-cut tree trunks. "It isn't like we can go through the front door."

The mercenary-knight takes another careful scan at the encampment, searching for a vulnerability to exploit. He watches as a sleepy patrolman begins dozing off at his post on an upper corner of the wall. A sly grin carves its way onto his face as he recalls an old mission he had embarked during his beginning days as a lone mercenary.

"Why not? That's _exactly_ what we're going to do."

"…Even I don't think that's a good idea."

"I once took on a contract with a distressed local in one of Demacia's outer cities, just West of the Marshes of Kaladoun. A miner's daughter was conned out of a painting worth more than their house; the last of her mother's works before she fell to disease. They didn't know it at the time, but the paint used to conceive the piece was a made with a rare set of flowers from the highest peaks of Freljord, said only to bloom once every decade. Apparently, it was received as a gift from a stranger they had sheltered after finding him unconscious in an alley."

Ephrial motions for Riven to follow him as they begin to run to the newly formed blind spot, taking careful strides across the grassy field under the cover of night.

"The father sought aid from the local authorities and mercenaries in the area to no avail. There were no legal actions the city's representatives could take, as the transaction was technically completed upon a mutual agreement. Of course, no mercenary is going to take on a job without real pay, much less pit their services against nobles; or anyone with deeper pockets than a miner, for that matter. After catching wind of his situation, I figured I would lend a hand. Turns out, that con artist was the paranoid type—the kind of constant suspicion that comes with being the most prominent man in the city, just gnawing away at him. He always kept himself surrounded by guards, but his distrust never actually let them inside of his mansion. They stayed on the outside, patrolling close to the walls and windows."

Both warriors charge for the timber wall, hands colliding with the obstruction to halt their momentum, while keeping noise down to a minimum. With their backs pressing against the barrier, the Exile follows the mercenary as they sneak along the splintery fortification.

Now whispering, "A divided length of rope, some carefully-tied lumps of flint and steel, and one stray dog later, all of the guards began chasing a barking little terror as it started lighting small fires in the courtyard. As they all panicked, I snuck in, grabbed the painting, and ran out."

"That's a very…intriguing story, but how is it of any use to us?" losing patience after approaching the enemy without any apparent plan. "It's not like we have any stray animals to rig with incendiary devices," closing her eyes and shaking her head, trying to imagine a small, playful dog triggering sparks as flinted ropes skip on the ground behind it.

Turning that cunning grin to Riven, "No, but it did teach me that fire is a valuable resource with many uses. Now, having a limitless supply of it…"

"Just what do you plan on igniting?"

The mercenary-knight responds by brandishing his blade and pressing it along the bark of the wall beside them. A row of tree trunks catches ablaze, and with aid from the wind, the flames begin to spread and rise quickly to the top, just below the slumbering watchman.

"What are you doing!? We're trying to get in _unnoticed_!" Riven exclaims in a whispering yell, struggling to keep her vexation as hushed as possible.

"Right. Once they notice the fire on their fortress, they'll split into teams with buckets of water. One trying to douse the flames up top, and another to stop the spreading down below, right here. Those will be the ones so nice as to open the front door for us."

"I see…and with their attention divided, we walk in and grab the summoner. Clever."

"Alright, let's go. We have to get to the other side before they notice the fire."

With careful and precise steps, the partners shuffle along the wall, keeping wary of the other guard pacing just above their heads. They reach the door, and crouch beside it, waiting for the next phase to begin.

The snoozing guard remains blissfully unaware of the growing orange glow behind his post. A tongue of flame creeps its way to the very top, and begins stretching up and over the wall. A lick at the man's sleeve causes it to ignite, and a brief moment of burning sensation later, the guard jolts awake in horror. A yelp, followed by frantic cursing, catches the attention of the other watches.

"Fire!" several men inside the small fortress can be heard calling out.

Sounds of scramble and orders being issued rise almost immediately. The distinct noise of splashing buckets diving into a basin of water paints a messy picture of a hasty and clumsy response. Within moments, the swordmasters hear the heavy bar holding the gate closed being lifted and removed. They ready themselves, and use the door for cover as it swings outward toward them, completely concealing the two as the makeshift fire brigade rushes to the scene; their buckets spilling portions of their contents with every urgent step.

Now's their chance. With enchanted swords at the ready, the pair dash around the door, and quickly survey their new surroundings. It looks far bigger on the outside than it does on the inside. Various tents clutter a portion of the ground. Unmarked crates of supplies and worn weapon racks, barely stocked, all fill a disorganized space within the entrenched ground.

"Hey, who the he—" swift strikes make quick work of the brigand caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Where's the summoner?" Riven turns her head in search for a sign.

Ephrial takes a scrutinizing gaze over the tents. One habit among bandits, and society in general, is that the leader always gets the biggest housing. In this case, an indigo tent, easily double the size of the rest, makes it easy to pick out. He gestures toward the suspected area, and both weave past the portable shelters, staying out of sight as the men tending to the fire come back for a refill.

With a quick pull, the entrance of the tent is thrown aside, and a flaming sword leads the way inward with its illuminating element. A figure shrouded in purple sits at the opposite end, looking frightened at the crescendo of commotion outside. Ephrial slowly approaches, sheathing his blade and gesturing his intent as a harmless one. As the surroundings surrender to the dim light of a small lamp already inside the portable shelter, and the orange ambient flaring in the distant background, Riven notices a silhouette come to vision. It raises a weapon up high, poising to blindside the mercenary-knight from behind the woven wall.

"Get down!" Riven calls out, dashing into action.

The Blazing Swordsman responds by ducking low, letting the Exile unleash a heavy swing over his head. A sundered blade slashes through the fabric and the assailant, leaving the man to collapse over himself as his body drags the resulting tear in the tent into a larger hole. The main door is brought into view, and the two know it is only a matter of moments before the remaining bandits return to see the intrusion.

"We don't have much time," she presumes.

Ephrial nods in agreement. Turning to the summoner, and releasing his binds "Are you okay? Will you be able to walk?"

"Y-yes…" he stutters with exhaustion.

He helps the young mage rise to his feet, then joins the former Noxian soldier by the opening of the ruined tent. "There can't be more than a dozen left. Four on the wall that haven't noticed us yet, and about eight outside ready to return at any moment."

"The doors, then?"

"The doors."

They both reach the same conclusion on how to play their tactics, and rush to the doorway. Riven closes only one of the large timber constructs, and Ephrial lifts a crudely-cut log into place, locking it shut. With their swords at the ready, they stand side-to-side, preparing to cut down the onslaught in their favor. The aim is simple: bottleneck the enemy through the only open way inside, and create a quick outcome.

"Intruders! Kill them!" the previously-napping guard calls attention to them from above.

"The day just isn't complete without someone threatening to kill me," Ephrial says in dry humor.

"Spoken like a true champion of the League," Riven adds to it.

"Heh. You know we'll need at least one of them alive to question, right?"

"I'll try to go easy on them."

"No you won't."

They both exchange a glance and a grin before returning their focus on the imminent battle. The lack of a well-organized response to the fire has allowed it to spin into a full blaze, engulfing the whole wall. A bright, red-orange light holds back the devouring darkness of the night, illuminating the battlefield in its graceful destruction. The summoner watches from the safe distance of the indigo shade, and shouting amidst the sound of rustling gear signals the return of the rest of the brigands.

"I'll handle those up top," Noxus' former poster child dashes to meet the men approaching from the side.

"Works for me. I have a little surprise for the rest…" the half-blood switches stances, gripping the sword with both hands.

He dives into his past, and the reasons he fights. Why he is, who he is, and what he is, letting it fuel his drive, and in turn, the ardent flames on his blade. It doesn't take long, as everything put into it is something he lives every day. Somewhere between fury and serenity, the flames dance in a harmonious display, just begging to be unleashed.

The scrambling men return together, and stop in front of him. Their faces, a clear sign of being caught off guard, freeze in shock. Before they can react, Ephrial swings his blade overhead, as if cutting through an invisible foe. Will full-force, the weapon crashes into the ground, and releases a sudden torrent of fire streaking in their direction. Four men, unfortunate enough to be at the front, are sent flying backward with a direct hit. The remaining bandits stumble back to their feet, dropping worn buckets in exchange for their weapons.

Riven dashes to his side again. "Done with them already?" he glances at her blade, the edge dripping a glistening red.

"You were right. I didn't go easy on them." She turns her sights to the aftermath of a heavily charged strike. "What happened here…?"

The previously closed door now hangs a crooked mess, partially swung open with splinters of a shattered bar. Small patches of fire trail along a blackened path of charred grass and earth, marking signs of a volatile explosion. Armed men rush through with the utmost hesitation, knowing they are clearly outmatched. With a sense of confusion and discord, one decides to take the initiative, and charges in, only to find himself impaled by the broken blade. The last three men surrender themselves, dropping their weapons and lowering to their knees.

"A wise decision. Now, who wants to be the first to tell me what your plans were with this summoner?" Ephrial nears.

The men look at each other in fear, hoping one of the others would take the lead. Something seems off, as if their true trepidation lies with a different outcome than the predicament they have been caught in. Further intrigued by their intentions, he approaches further to press for answers.

"Your chances of ending up like them can only diminish if you start talking," he gestures to their fallen comrades.

"They said this would turn out differently," one of the men begins to crack, and the others shrink away.

"Just who are 'they'?" The Blazing Swordsman locks eyes with the kidnapper.

"She's—!" he gulps out before freezing up. His eyes suddenly widen, the anxiousness spiking drastically to panic.

The mercenary-knight traces his gaze to be looking past him, and quick reflexes dive out of the way of a flashing bolt whizzing by. A total of three blasts, one for each enemy, kicks dirt and dust into the air.

Ephrial swiftly rises to his feet, waving the airborne debris out of his face. "Are you okay?" he asks the coughing Exile.

"Yes…" rubbing dirt off of her cheek. She turns to the source of the magical attack. "What did you do!?"

"I—I'm sorry," the summoner shakes out.

"We needed them alive for answers. Surely a summoner such as yourself can appreciate the value of gathering intelligence," Ephrial follows.

"I-I just wanted them to pay for capturing me," the young man pleads for understanding.

The two sword-wielding allies exchange looks and sigh, knowing what's done is done.

"I suppose we'll just have to stay the course then. You've been here for about two days, correct? Is there anything you can tell us of why these men have been keeping you here?"

"They…they said something about selling me off to some guys that wouldn't reveal their allegiance. I don't know anything more than that…"

"I see. So we're back to having no definite leads again. Though, a question still remains… Why are you so far from the Institute, summoner?"

"The Institute…!" he perks up with anxiousness. "The High Councilor issued an order for a team of summoners to spread the word to any champions of the League we can find!"

"So we're not the only ones that were teleported…" Ephrial surmises.

"Word of what?" Riven asks.

"Instead of returning to the Institute of War, you are needed immediately to rendezvous at Kalamanda."

"Kalamanda…you mean the field you call 'The Crystal Scar'?" the mercenary-knight grows curious.

"Yes! We need to hold onto the last remaining nexuses that remain operational."

The Exile maps out the topography in her mind. "I see… It's not too far South from the Institute itself, so we are still heading in the right direction."

"Right…but why just us champions?" Ephrial inquires. "Why not enlist the full aid of an army like Demacia's?"

"I don't know…I think the Elite summoners want to keep this incident as quiet as possible for as long as they can, in order to prevent a chaotic instability between political agreements."

The half-blood falls silent, contemplating the information he has taken in this day.

"I have to keep going!" the young summoner starts out of the burning fortress with a growing sense of urgency.

"You're not coming with us?" the Noxian exile stops him. "You were just captured!"

"I'm needed out there! You two are needed in Kalamanda! We all have our roles to play!" he breaks his sleeve free in a hurry, and disappears out into the night.

Riven turns to Ephrial, noticing how he began neglecting their rescued captive "Is there something wrong?"

"I can't say for certain…" his arms crossed in deep thought. "Those men…that summoner was able to decimate three of them in a split second. Yet, his whole escort, however small, were killed, and he captured, without taking a single one of them down?"

"Our source told us they were taken by surprise…but you do have a point. Summoners are well-versed in magic. Even a novice summoner can outclass the average battle-mage…"

"Hm…"

"Where do you think we should go?"

"I would like to see the state of the Institute for myself… However, if what that summoner said is true, the nexuses have to take priority. Let's head to Kalamanda. Once we sort that out, the Institute won't be very far away."

"Agreed."

The walls on the far side of the camp, where they had formed their distraction, collapses inward, and embers are sent flying over them before fading into nothingness.

"I suppose that's our cue to get going."

The two walk out of the timber doorway and begin resuming their path to the West. A quiet walk leaves the burning mess behind, out of sight, save for the rising smoke barely noticeable in the cloudy night.

"…Thanks for saving me earlier, by the way," Ephrial recalls the moment in the indigo tent.

"I owed you one."

"Keeping track, are we?" he titters.

"Perhaps," a tone difficult to discern between playful or being concerned with Noxian honor.

Attempting to keep things lighthearted, whichever scenario it happens to be, "Heh…well, if that's the case, then you owe me _one_ more."

Riven gives him an odd look.

"The wolves?" he responds, thinking back to their first encounter.

"You're really going to count that?"

"Were you hoping I would forget?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't remind me," a faint smile.

"Now, where would the fun be in that?"

The two share a short-lived chuckle before the silence dissolves the air again. Crickets play their songs, a slow and even pace between chirps, in accordance to the cool air of the late hour. Curiosity itches at Riven's mind, and she decides to extend her promise of cooperation to being less reclusive, causing her to bring up her inquiry directly.

"…You never told me what happened to the family in your story."

"Oh, the miner and his daughter? Well, there's not much more to say, really. They got their painting back, sold it, and started living happily ever after with their new dog."

"Didn't you technically _steal_ the painting back?"

"I prefer to think I… ** _equalized_** the transaction. Laws and such are meant to create a fair ground between citizens of all classes, yet they wind up protecting only those of more privileged means than anything, even in Demacian territory. I'm sure you're quite familiar with that concept, seeing as Noxus is a prime example of such iniquity."

"What exactly made it 'equal' if you took the painting?"

"I left him the frame." He turns to meet Riven's perusing gaze. "What? You get what you pay for, right?" he smirks.

She turns away, concealing a slight grin from the infectious humor that finds its way in Ephrial's demeanor. "You must have reaped quite a handsome reward."

The half-blooded swordsman takes a moment to think back. "Yeah, I guess it was a rather memorable stew."

"…Stew? They didn't pay you for your trouble?" hit with bemusement.

"That **_was_** the payment. I know I'm considered a "mercenary" to quite a few, and it's not an inaccurate conception. However, as my aim was never about money, I never really sought out for pouches of gold in my travels. The only times I would really accept such is when escorting a merchant from one town to another. Anyone else that had insisted on paying me back in some form, I would merely accept only a meal and a place for the one night. If they were able accommodate such, that is."

"Is that how the 'knight' part of your title came into it?"

"Most likely. People probably couldn't decide what to label me as, so I suppose they just wound up combining both terms into one."

"I see…"

A few silent moments pass, and Riven realizes she had cut off the conversation with an interrupting chain of thoughts. She raises her head to see the mercenary-knight with the same contemplating expression on his face.

"Are you still bothered by today's events?" she asks, not taking him for the easily-distracted type.

"I don't know…didn't things seem to be a bit…off?"

"You mean how that summoner got caught by amateurs with shabby weaponry and even more shameful skill?"

"That, but more… Why would an organization, so daring as to attack the Institute, place their trust in capturing summoners to weak gangs like that…?"

"Hm… Perhaps because they are cheap, and their ties cannot be traced back to them nearly as easily as using a reputable band of sellswords."

"Yes, that is a rather superlative hypothesis. Hm…one thing is for certain, though. If they have already organized a bounty for summoners amidst Valoran's undesirables, that must mean that whomever is involved in the attacks is still within the League's walls. It's the only way they could catch word of the summoners' next moves so quickly."

"Shouldn't we be heading toward the Institute, then?"

"No. Whatever the case might be, the Institute's interest in securing the nexuses at the Crystal Scar is the most reasonable objective that we can safely assume to be true. If our mystery group has already learned of the defense forming in Kalamanda, then there may very well be a plan of attack in motion. We have to head there to warn them of what we know. Then, we take the fight back to the Institute."

Riven silently agrees to the course of action, and the pair resume their travels in another contemplative silence. She notes the degree of certainty her partner has, even when faced with questions that only beg further questions. Perhaps she sees a fragment of her former self within him; a solid conviction, only that of a leader rather than a follower. A blind follower…

The recollection of herself stings, but it's a necessary reminder of who she is now, why she is, and what she must do. At least she has company to distract her mind from the constant battle she relives, over and over. A few lighthearted moments here and there provide a temporary relief of those scars. Could this be…enjoyment? No…such a concept has not been available to her since the day she had lost her unit in Ionia, then decided to cut ties with her friends, family, and Noxus altogether.

Still, the road now seems far less… _unforgiving_ than before.


	15. Chapter 15: Blood and Water

**-  
Chapter 15**

 ** _Blood and Water_**

The hour is as late as the moon is high. An unyielding breeze meanders through the covering forest, whispering through the stretching branches on all sides. Warm flames of a crackling fire flicker and whip as it illuminates a small clearing near a shelf of boulders. The adopted campsite passes as a zone of temporary respite during a series of daily skirmishes.

Watchful eyes monitor the area, enduring the first shift of standing guard in the wake of night. Empty surroundings, and a persistent silence, disturbed only by the rustling green canopy of leaves above, create a suitably stagnant environment for rest…and deep thought.

A cerulean gaze passes over the slumbering warrior; her head rests on the palm of her empty gauntlet, and her trusty blade lies adjacent, just inches away. Loose foliage skips across the grass, some of which tumbles into the burning flames, quickly dissolving into ashes and embers.

 _"_ _I wonder what they would think if they could see me traveling with someone that brought so much ruin to our…mild-mannered half. What would they say…"_ his mind begins to travel. _"I have not even yet begun to encounter the inevitable scornful rebuking of those directly affected by her campaign in Ionia. 'Blood is thicker than water…yet blood stains, and water washes away'. That's what Mother said once, anyway. Family ties are important, sure, but the roots of any tree grow in water. It took a while for me to understand, but her observation, and addition to the well-known phrase, was not to diminish family, but rather acknowledge where true growth comes from. We're all born with an inherent set of traits that tie us to our ancestry. There's simply no escaping that. Those would be the stains, not always welcome, but not always unwelcome, depending on one's own history. After all, given a variety of possible circumstances, not everyone has a family…"_

 _"_ _And then, there's the water…ties with people outside of the respective blood-binding family trees we are each a part of. These are the bonds she placed on an equal ground of importance with family. One must remember, of course, that families are created from extending outside of themselves. Like a tree can only grow with water in the mix of things, so, too, are outside bonds necessary for one to truly realize their own selves. The people we meet, and the impact they wind up having on us, end up becoming a deciding factor in the paths we take in life. Every day is another opportunity—another step closer to meeting someone unexpected that might change the entire course of our personal histories-in-the-making. Time, experiences, challenges, and the mere exposure to new thoughts and ideas all collaborate to become a defining part of our character. 'All things are a matter of perspective,' she used to say… Can't argue with that logic. The variable within the meaning behind that simple thought is as infinite as the possibilities of things that can be perceived."_

 _"_ _I once thought her intention in that lesson between blood and water was just some Ionian-based way of thinking. Something about telling me to reach out for friends in Noxus. Of all the obscurities surrounding her many teachings, that was one I found rather…incomprehensible. I understood that she craved Cerina and I to have more people surrounding us than just each other. However, such was the impossible dream barred by the very blood that tied us together. I started thinking that the 'water washes away' piece of the puzzle was the selfless wish of a mother, telling Cerina and I to run away and start anew. To erase our cursed mixed ties, cheating our way out of a prejudice-induced isolation, and just...live. Well, I suppose in the end, she got her wish…part of it. We did escape Noxus, but under the worst of circumstances. Even then, the very 'escape' of it was merely an illusion in the end. At that point, I lost both family and friends in just that one night. Everyone I had fought to protect…everything I had hoped to carve out a future for…gone."_

Ephrial continues to watch over the Exile; the clockwork in his mind deciphering and discerning the rippling echoes of the past. _"There's a point that, when pushed to a degree, things stop coming as a surprise. Nothing more to lose, and being left with questions while endlessly seeking answers. For me, it was finding that monster…that so-called 'chemist'…_ _ **Warwick**_ _…"_ A deep breath, _"…Of course, even after everything, I cannot…I_ _ **will not**_ _end him out of revenge. The influence of my sister's unwavering devotion to our mother's ways won't allow me to. It's the only way she even remains in this world, alive in a sentimental way… One so very fragile to keep. However, the course of action itself will remain the same. We_ _ **will**_ _meet in battle. Either he will die, or I will. Such is the duality of my nature…my path. Sure, it is by the sword that peace is destroyed…but it is also the sword that will rise to defend it. It is only the sword that possesses the strength to pursue and enact justice. Perhaps not for everything, as that would be taking things to an extreme, but definitely for when mere laws and corruptible courts just won't cut it."_

Riven rolls over, as if in response to a rising gust blowing through.

 _"_ _Then, somewhere beyond that aforementioned point, when you think you've seen it all, and everything appears to have a definite order, something surprises you… Someone, who after a sea of indiscriminate bloodshed was spilt by her own hand, turns it all around. It's never easy for one to admit their own faults, much less confront them head-on. A mind weighed by insurmountable guilt can drive a person beyond the edge of insanity. Yet, in front of me lies the truest example of 'only the strong survive'. Not for her physical ability to cleave someone in half with one swing of a blade bigger than her body. Not even for her genuine vision of the Noxian way. It's the fact that she doesn't cut corners. In order to truly atone for her misdeeds, she gave up everything on her own accord. She severed all of her ties to Noxus. Her friends, her family, her beloved nation, and way of life. Exiling herself willingly, parting ways with everything she fought for, or so believed she had fought for, had to have been the hardest thing for her to do. That's where her true strength lies… In her honesty; to herself, and her beliefs. A spirit can never truly be lost if it remains sincere."_

 _"_ _Perhaps, it is in that very observation that Mother's lesson can be accurately perceived… I, myself, have chosen to sever any possible bonds to Ionia, whether I have any distant family located there or not. It's the one place that might have been welcoming to us, had things been slightly different. Cerina and I didn't have the means to take a voyage that far, with a lack of a suitable vessel and enough supplies to last such a risky trip. Even if we had, the invasion surely destroyed any chance of a peaceful life there…"_

He shakes his head slightly, brushing off pointless 'what-if's of the past. _"I digress; I, too, made a choice to turn my back on any form of 'comfort' there was to be had, if such a thing could ever exist after everything. All for the sake of the greater good. Therein lies what I believe to be the true hidden message…'yet blood stains, and water washes away'. To put aside petty differences and create a change that truly matters. To break the notion that confines us to our 'comfort zones', and attempt to understand the ways of the people around us. Everyone has their own story. We don't have to assimilate ourselves, or give up what we believe in, but we can at least form some sort of bridge out of common interests. That, if anything, is the key to the decision that brought shock to both nations. My mother, a peaceful priestess of Ionia, chose to marry my father, a feared and revered general of Noxus. As if to spite the dissenters from both sides, she even took things a step further, choosing to live in the very city-state that lives by conduct contrary to her own morals and nature. She had a bigger picture in mind. One that involved Noxus and Ionia coexisting in peace, benefiting each other in a mutual understanding. A daring dream that ended up costing her life."_

 _"_ _Though she was hated by most, if not all, Noxians, they still respected her. There was strength to be found in her peace. A conviction that matched that of a highly decorated Noxian general. I suppose that's what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. It begins to oppose and rewrite the very rules of reality, defying the norm, and establishing new grounds and new paths. That's exactly what happened—both nations had their very realities shaken, and it opened the way for other Noxian-Ionian couples to form, settling in both nations. It was an inconceivable notion that almost showed promise. Yet…in the end, Noxus purged their bloodlines, and invaded Ionia to exterminate the possibility of anything like that ever happening again, disguising their intentions with lies of 'helping a primitive people evolve and survive in the modern world'. No one really fell for the lie, but so long as they stuck to it, the political powers behind the influential decisions concerning the Institute, and its participants, had to abide by contracted procedure. It was a mockery of everything Mother endured. Everything she believed in."_

 _"_ _And that's where she comes in… Riven, the possessor of a quality thought to be extinct in Noxus: Honor. She's definitely made her share of mistakes, and then some. However, instead of craving power and bloodshed, all she desires is redemption for her sins. That's far, far more than what can be said about any other Noxian I've met, or even merely heard about. Her choice in how she goes about it is true to her belief in the Noxian way. No shortcuts, no excuses. She wants to right her wrongs with her own strength. That's true honor…and of course, there can be no honor without honesty."_

 _"_ _That is why I choose to fight with Riven. Why I choose to look past all that blood; the warring blood that murdered my family…and the peaceful blood that stains her hands. To forge a bond between nations with a bright future, and wash away the ugly past like water. That is what I believe the meaning behind Mother's cryptic lesson to be…and Riven is the reason I believe_ _ **in**_ _it. I know not all Noxians are the same, but thoughts mean nothing without the conviction and action taken behind it. It took a wayward soldier to rebel against her entire nation to finally make me realize the true potential of the ideal my mother and sister both shared…"_

Riven begins tossing and turning. The night air is chilly with the persistent breeze winding through their camp. A cold night tends to be attributed to causing dreams to turn sour.

Ephrial rises to his feet, and silently walks over while unfastening the tattered cape that trails behind him. He stops to gently rest the battle-scarred memento over the sleeping soldier. It's not as whole as a fresh blanket, but it holds its warming purpose nonetheless. Its true value, however, is as a treasure. Cerina had fashioned Ephrial's cape just before he set off on his mission for her. A token of being with him "in spirit," and the last memory they had together before parting for the first…and last time.

The Exile's tossing subsides a little, but does not cease altogether. The scars of her past run too deep, and nightmares continue to plague the night. Ephrial is all-too familiar with the concept, having his own relentless recollections play vividly in his mind just the same. Waking up is not even relief enough. Every night is a trial, but still, sleep is sleep…no matter how restless it is.

Instead of waking Riven up for her turn as the night watch, the mercenary-knight unsheathes his blade, and plants it down into the waning campfire. She has enough to deal with without a cold, sleepless night to make things worse. Blazing steel takes over as the source of the site's light and warmth, the flames unwavering in the face of a strong wind. He walks over to the side and sits down, leaning against a tree as he resumes his dutiful surveillance.

 _"_ _Her journey for redemption, maintaining the honor of holding true to the Noxian way, would have her continue on by herself. Why she has allowed me to accompany her, only she can say. What she said to me before still rings true… I don't understand what this truly means to her, or what is haunting her dreams even at this very moment… However, I do understand the simple fact that it is important to her. That's all I really need to know for now. Maybe it's just the mercenary in me, but I'll make sure she sees her mission through. The bloodshed will stop…and the past washed away."_

 _"_ _Violence to end violence."_


	16. Chapter 16: The Crystal Scour

**-  
Chapter 16**

 ** _The Crystal Scour_**

"I've never been here except during the League's matches. Without the sound of battle in the atmosphere, everything here seems so…dead," Riven looks around her empty surroundings.

"Yeah…a real ghost town. This place has been quite convenient lately…" Ephrial contemplates Kalamanda's recent history.

"Are you referring to Heywan's scheme?"

"Scheme, yes. Heywan's…? I'm not convinced it started with him. With the recent events, it's quite evident it hasn't ended with him either."

"What do you suppose their plan is for directing us here?" thinking of Ephrial's suspicion with the summoner they had previously encountered.

"Time will tell us that before long. The lack of summoners here is not a good sign so far, however."

A loud blast erupts the ambient silence, echoing through the abandoned town with startling force. The shockwaves ripple along the ground, rumbling the very foundations of the surrounding structures.

"That doesn't sound promising either," Riven adds, alertness tightening her grip on the broken blade.

"I guess that's our cue to run toward the source of impending danger," Ephrial says dryly, with the wariness of knowing what he is walking into may very well be a trap.

The pair run to the middle of the Crystal Scar, large walls of rock and grass becoming more familiar with each step. The silence of the air, and the lack of summoners sharing their minds, gives them an unnerving feeling of being completely isolated in the abandoned village. An unclear goal, and the looming threat of an unknown enemy approaching, keeps the two on edge as they hope to skid through the provided cover unseen.

Peering through the brushes, "Is that…Blitzcrank?" Oceanic eyes continue to observe a scene of a growing audience drawn to the mysterious commotion.

A gem-studded knight follows behind, large hammer in tow. From the neighboring shadows across the way, a powerful minotaur dashes out, ready for a brawl. Alistar meets the two in confusion, and the League participants begin conversing just out of earshot of the hidden swordsmen.

Heavy footsteps begin approaching from the North, and the sound of crumbling ground grinds in their wake. Emerging from the patch of greenery is a giant living rock, and next to him, a sentient tree.

"Vile magicks! When will the torment of mages end!?" Maokai barks to his kindred ally.

"Order will be formed. Restored," the hulking Malphite bellows in response.

"By the reckless mages that summon us to do their bidding!? Only nature knows true balance!"

The already-present champions all look in the direction of the bickering tree and mild-tempered living boulder. They approach each other in a shared curiosity, each holding onto the familiarity they have with each other on the Fields of Justice, and hoping someone might have information on the events that have lead them here.

Ephrial and Riven remain hidden in the brush, patiently watching the event unfold. Traveling alone for so long in a world filled to the brim with danger has made them appropriately cautious.

 _"_ _This is quite a group of growing diversity. Zaun, the Great Barrier, two other worlds, the Twisted Treeline…and now Piltover?"_ Ephrial whispers, observing an adventurer entering the scene.

"Wow. Am I really that late to the party?" the Prodigal Explorer shouts from the top of one of the surrounding walls of stone. With a flash, arcane magic materializes him on the ground with the rest. "You guys got the distress call, too?"

Sounds of combat, muffled by distance, quickly explode out of the corner. An egotistical duelist and mysterious grandmaster lurch out in mid-air; a dented lamppost swiping away the deadly point of a rapier.

Their skirmish bumps them into the giant leg of Malphite, who in turn, gives them a disapproving scowl…as far as living rocks can make facial expressions. They ignore him, too distracted in their conflict. The Shard of the Monolith picks the two up by the loose ends of their respective attires, like separating feuding children.

"Release me at once! I am in ze middle of teaching zis peasant a lesson he shall never forget!" Fiora demands in her signature accent, furiously fighting against her restraint.

"Ha! You're not fit enough to be headmistress of an elementary league," Jax taunts.

Taric approaches with his usual aura of serenity, "Friends, now is not the time for quarrel. What we need is some opal for harmony. I'm certain I have a spare somewhere…" he begins digging in his pockets.

The group begins clamoring about separate affairs. Fiora and Jax continue squabbling about their skills, Maokai beseeches Malphite to crush the two, and Taric mumbles on about gems. A restless minotaur gets engrossed in the aggression and begins to mouth off to Ezreal about a past League match.

The Blazing swordsman and Exile exchange glances, seeing the gathering turn into a senseless mash of arguments, getting far away from the matters at hand. With brave steps, they emerge from their grassy cover and reveal themselves to those not too fond of Noxus. Most notably, Alistar, with his past war against the city-state that lead to the murder of his family and his imprisonment, where he was forced to fight in the brutal arena spectacle known as the Fleshing.

Ezreal, known for his remarks against Noxians, gives them a cross look, and takes a battle stance. "Noxians… I knew those guys were up to something!"

"The last thing we need now is to jump to hasty conclusions," the mercenary-knight calmly approaches, showing no intention of drawing his blade.

Alistar's breathing accelerates, his head lowering with a piercing gaze, and deadly horns ready to follow suit.

Shifting his attention, "Hey, now. I once ran **_with_** the bulls in combat against a group of Noxian invaders. Not _against_ them," Ephrial gives a reminder of his shared story—an introduction given on behalf of the newcomers to the League, courtesy of the Institute.

"Oh yeah? What are you doing with _her_?" the explorer gestures toward Riven. The friendships and acquaintances formed in his time in the League has given him insight of the sordid details about the invasion of Ionia.

"Breaking the chains of the past that continue to bind us to pointless violence," he chooses his words carefully, as to answer the question while appeasing to a snorting bull. "What is _your_ purpose for joining the League," he turns the interrogation around.

Ezreal falls silent, knowing his entrance to the Institute of War was due to an ancient relic tied with summoning magic. A knack for exploration, combined with a boastful, carefree attitude, cannot weigh against a history of lost family and a lifetime of fighting.

For Alistar, everything takes a shade of red. While Riven has never ventured to the home of the minotaurs, her mere presence, and worn remnants of Noxian armor, triggers a whirlwind of flashbacks. Words fall upon deaf ears as an age of torment and battle rush across the brute's eyes.

Before a hoof scrapes the ground the last time before a charge, a four-legged predator leaps into the scene, taking everyone's attention with a loud roar. A cougar, looking as confused as a kitten in a hall of mirrors, looks at each of the gathered company before assuming her human form.

"You are not the prey I seek…" Nidalee examines the crowd.

"ERROR. PROBABILITY OF CURRENT LEAGUE COMBATANTS PRESENT IN AREA CONVERGING AT THE SAME TIME OUTSIDE OF LEAGUE SANCTIONED EVENTS: LESS THAN ONE PERCENT," Blitzcrank chimes in, announcing his own confusion as he scratches his metal scalp once.

"I think before we start a private match of our own, we should begin exchanging accounts regarding as to why we're all here," Ephrial capitalizes on the desired track of thought.

"Zis insolent simpleton challenged me to a duel, claiming me a coward that would not fight without ze 'safety net' of ze League's magic!" Fiora takes a swipe at the air, still dangling across from Jax.

The Grandmaster laughs the insult off. "I got a letter from someone that said I would find a _real_ challenge here. Clearly a hoax," he goads Fiora with a taunting, six-eyed glare.

"Why you—"

"I got a distress call from a yawper I found on my way to the Institute," Ezreal interrupts, pulling out a small device, dead after a single use.

Yawpers are communication devices that yordles use to send vocal messages across great distances. Normally, they are not so fragile as to break over one operation, but the one in the explorer's hand looks as if it has seen better days.

"They didn't exactly give much detail, but they were rather specific about the location," he finishes.

"A curious stranger divulged to me her woes of a looming threat in the land she had once called home," Taric's oddly soothing voice joins in.

"That may be the closest to the truth so far," Ephrial takes in their accounts. "I'm sure everyone here heard the rumbling prior to our arrival here. I don't suppose you have anything to do with that, Big Guy?" turning to Malphite, the only being currently present that could have possibly caused such an anomaly.

The giant creature from a distant world lets the duelists back down, leaving them to their ceasefire and misplaced disdain. "No. Summoners urged me to defend the nexuses."

"…The summoners didn't go with you, but they allowed Maokai out of the Institute?"

"It is their promise of returning me to the forest that restrains me from crushing you, wielder of the destructive element!" the Twisted Treant flares, a sapling on his shoulder matching his glower.

"What's all this racket!?" a raspy voice calls out, approaching from behind the obstruction that is Malphite.

Everyone turns around at yet another arrival, this time, a blue man covered in runes. He approaches steadfast, book in hand, and that unmistakable, oversized scroll on his back.

"Ryze, too?" Ephrial looks at the entire congregation.

"I can't conduct my research with all this commotion!" the agitated archmage fusses. "What are you all doing here, anyway!? Shouldn't you be off fighting with the summoners at the Institute?"

"I think it's safe to say that none of us really knows why we're here, but we'll have to find out fast. Just what kind of research are you hoping to accomplish in this area?"

"The attacks on the nexuses, of course! Upon the request of an elite summoner, I was tasked with finding out what drained the power from the nodes in this place."

"The nexuses here are already dead?" Riven breaks her silence, bearing the words of the summoner they had met in mind.

"Why are you surprised? Your kind only knows how to bring death wherever they go!" Alistar snaps.

"I-I—" being filled with too much guilt to know how to respond.

"Now's not the time to point fingers at each other. We're all here for a reason, and it's become apparent that it's not what we have been lead to believe. The affiliation of those responsible for what's going on has yet to be determined, but it's clear that the Institute is still infested with those of a sinister…and highly elaborate intention." Ephrial calls things to order.

Ezreal ponders, resting his chin on his fist and a crossed arm. "Hm…but why lead us to Kalamanda? There's nothing here."

"That may be the actual reason itself. This place was a hotspot for attention not all that long ago, was it not? I may not have been in the League for as long as any of you, but I did a lot of catching up with the League's publication known as 'The Journal of Justice'. That is, before it was discontinued for its involvement with the scandal," the mercenary explains.

"That doesn't make sense. Why dismantle the establishment of power when the sole point is to grasp power?" the Prodigal Explorer wonders.

"There are many that see the Institute of War as an obstacle, rather than a seat to be conquered," adds Jax. "I know Pantheon and the rest of the Rakkor tribe aren't very fond of it.

"Perhaps, but they are more known for hand-to-hand combat, as well as a strict code of honor. There's no way they would resort to such schemes."

"Let's remember who were involved, and who had the most to gain. Heywan took over the seat of the High Councilor of the League after Ashram's disappearance. Things became extremely heated between Demacia and Noxus here, during which time Swain rose in Boram Darkwill's place in Noxus. The collective disappearances and deaths during the ordeals covered by the Journal, dating even back to the attack on the Demacian ship, the DSS Excursion, have all been a part of some power play. However, there are still missing links, and there's no way to tell just how deep this thing goes," the Blazing Swordsman quickly ties the known to the unknown.

"That is quite a daring assumption, newbie…but it looks like you've done your research," Ryze acknowledges.

"So what you're saying is that Noxus IS involved!" Alistar grunts.

"Something like that. Not every citizen is content with Swain's methods, and even the most notorious Noxians have been a major part of the scandal's investigation—the Sinister Blade and the Blade's Shadow," Ephrial points out.

"Didn't the Institute cease all outside investigations to conduct its own in the matter?" Taric remembers.

"They did, but I doubt that would stop those two. Besides, there's nothing more unethical and dangerous than a 'protective' organization being allowed to police itself."

"All zis talk of politics and schemes bores me," the fencer jumps in. "I desire a worthy foe to face me. Let me know when they are brave enough to rise to ze challenge so that I may run them through!"

"I, for one, am entertained by this story of men fighting each other for such petty causes. Is this what you call 'civilization'?" Nidalee makes a sarcastic remark, being only interested in protecting the jungle that raised her from the dangers that pose a threat to it.

"Quiet, cat! We all know of your little affair with Summoner Nashahago!" Ryze calls her out.

Nidalee hisses at him, and agitation flings into the air once more. Clamor builds up, the group going back to their previous arguments.

"We're wasting time. There's nothing here, and none of their interests align with ours," Riven motions to leave.

"Well, we do have the common interest in making sure whatever threatens the League comes to a halt before it expands too far. Even if not all of us realize that at this very moment…" he looks at the rabbling crowd. "We need all the help we can get, and we can't exactly trust the summoners of the Institute."

"Yes, but how—…what is that?" the Exile spots something off in the distance.

A peculiar shape moves around the messy remains of mined minerals and ore. The blue and purple crystalline figure bounces from rock to rock, as if looking for something, seemingly unaware of their presence. Two beady, yellow eyes look up in their direction, and it begins scuttling toward them.

It's Skarner, the only entity that actually belongs in the area, seeing as this is his home. The giant scorpion's arrival causes the arguments to cease; the veterans of the Crystal Scar battles knowing all too well the sting of the Crystal Vanguard, and his prowess on his home field.

Looking confused at the gathering, he speaks. "Why have you all come here? I thought Dominion matches have been halted with certain exceptions."

"Hail, friend. It has been quite some time since we last met," Taric greets.

"In order to save time and cut the repetitiveness of the situation, we're not sure why we're here. Judging by the obvious lies that we were told that caused this rendezvous, we were directed to this place in order to be kept out of the way while the attack on the Institute proceeds further," Ephrial surmises.

"The Institute is under attack?" Skarner displays his ignorance of the situation.

"You don't know?"

"Skarner requested a temporary leave from the League's activities, in order to investigate the tremors," Malphite's deep voice thunders an explanation.

"Tremors, huh? Such as the one we all heard and felt earlier?"

"Skarner, did you happen to catch who tampered with the nexuses?" Ryze, concerned with the investigation at hand.

"This is the first time I have been on the surface for a week. I have been making sure no harm comes to my fellow Vanguards, and searching for the cause of the disturbances underground."

"Have you found anything of particular notability?" Ephrial, searching for more pieces of the puzzle.

"Tunnels. A network of passageways that were not there before I awakened."

"Do they lead to any place of importance?"

"I have not yet explored them all. Fortunately—" he stops suddenly, and becomes restless as he skips across the ground from side to side.

"Too much time in ze dark?" Fiora jabs at the spontaneous shift in the Vanguard's demeanor.

"I may have spoken too soon. I sense…a disturbance," the crystalline being attempts to read the ground.

Within seconds, the earth begins to vibrate. Subtle at first, it quickly grows into a violent reeling that causes the loose pebbles of the terrain to bounce and skip like jumping beans.

"What have those reckless mages done this time!?" Maokai, using his natural advantage, roots himself against the quaking.

As the tremor reaches its peak, the ground in front of the company of legends erupts. The blast knocks everyone off of their feet, with the exception of the Twisted Treant. Chunks of dirt and untapped ore spew into the sky like a volcano. With it, a colossal creature eclipses the sun, shading even the massive Malphite.

A deafening roar, like a mix between screeching brakes on a railroad track, and the deep howling of heavy magical artillery flying through the air, shreds the town of Kalamanda. With a terrifying entrance, a monumental creature stares down at the gathered figures with beaming eyes of citrine.

The echoes of the monster dissipate, leaving only a quick moment of silence for the men and women of battle-scarred fame to synchronize themselves with reality. Before them stands a titanic being that rivals even the summoner-made Baron Nashor construct, housed on the Summoner's Rift. Its body is as quartz or crystal, just like Skarner, only a far darker shade of violet, with a lighter blue outlining.

A serpentine face, and two long claws that look like they are fanged beasts of their own, sprout out of the ground in a wide, elongated body, of which still remains partially concealed under the earth.

"What is that monster!?" Ezreal coughs through a cloud of tossed dust and soil.

Skarner clicks his claws in disbelief, "The General of the Crystal Vanguard awakens… Goliath!"

"That thing is your friend…?" Ephrial picks himself up, sizing up the massive oddity.

"He is…an ally. Perhaps the best of us…the 'Crystal Scour'." he answers. "Goliath! Why have you awakened!?" the scorpion shouts up, approaching the base of the creature.

The serpent's head tilts downward, and with a swipe of a beast-shaped claw, knocks the guardian away, slinging him into a nearby wall of rock. Skarner pries himself out of the indentation he created on impact, dizzily landing on his legs.

"Goliath…!" he musters his strength up again. "Do you not remember me!?"

With a sweep of his head, and its mouth wide-open, the monstrosity lets out a bellowing hiss over the group, sending razor-sharp shards of various shapes and sizes in all directions. With combat-honed reflexes, the champions swiftly move out of the paths of the lethal projectiles. Malphite and Maokai, too bulky to side step quickly enough, shield themselves by raising up their thick arms.

Ephrial completes a well-practiced somersault, "I take that as an assertive 'no'."

"What have they done to you…" Skarner, in disbelief and remorse, not recognizing the furious entity towering before them.

"Whatever your quarrels are, put them aside! This thing cannot be allowed to leave Kalamanda!" the mercenary-knight urges the veterans of the League as he unsheathes his sword with resolve.

"Finally, a real challenge! Maybe there was truth to that note after all," Jax cockily spins his trusty lamppost.

"We shall see who strikes ze killing blow," Fiora swings her blade outward and takes her stance.

A sapling emerges from Makoai's arm as he speaks. "The torment of magic never ceases!"

"BATTLE SYSTEMS: OPERATIONAL. FIRED UP AND READY TO EXTERMINATE," an unmistakable robotic voice declares.

Another shrill roar tortures the air, and the crystal beast flexes itself. Primal fury of an ancient guardian, seemingly twisted out of any reasoning other than to destroy, ruthlessly prepares to continue the assault. Its two fang-bearing tendrils plunge into the ground, near misses on the evasive champions.

The Shard of the Monolith tackles one of them, wrapping his arms in an attempt to restrain the head-like appendage. His size, barely competing with the immense limb, is not enough to keep him from being lifted a few, very visible feet off of the air. He grapples with the writhing claw, trying his best to keep it still as he bounds off the ground with every twist, creating small craters with his feet on impact.

Ezreal fires a handful of rounds at Goliath's face, acquiring the bulk of his attention. Bolts of arcane magic feebly bounce off the crystalline exoskeleton, dispersing into nothingness shortly after. The agile explorer runs around the towering beast, dodging shards of retaliation, and teleporting between its free arm as it slams into the ground repeatedly in an attempt to crush him. He finds himself running a deadly obstacle course of flying rocks, razor projectiles, and a deceivingly fast tendril with sharp teeth.

A quick feline takes advantage of the bound claw, pouncing on it with a set of her own, and dashes up its length for a better shot. She leaps off, spear in hand, and skillfully hurls it at the face of her larger-than-life opponent. The magic within the weapon carries it true, hitting hard against the dark purple skull. She lands on all fours, in human form, mystical spear back in-hand. The Bestial Huntress looks up only to find her effort fall to futility. No apparent damage, even so much as a scratch, has been done.

Jax and Fiora, with competitive spirits, take to the back of the crystal serpent. With their target distracted, they strike at Goliath's body, searching for a weak point. Their weapons, strike after strike, are repelled by the layer of transparent resilience.

Ephrial finds himself on the same objective, paying close attention to the Vanguard's attacks. He attempts to discern a pattern to its onslaught, trying to figure out any kind of vulnerability that may open up. Another hailstorm of razors rains down upon them. Fire streaks at his front, rapid strikes breaking the missiles in mid-air.

The athletic Exile dashes in between the shooting shards of death, and flips through the air to bring her blade crashing down on the beast's loose arm. The only effectiveness in the attack is at capturing a mere glance from the citrine eyes towering above.

In a surge of fury, Goliath takes back his right claw from Malphite's grip, raising it up, and slamming the solid champion across the ground. The combined flailing of the gargantuan causes another appendage to shake out from the earth; a large tail, like that of a dragon, breaks the ground beneath the two duelists' feet, and sends them flying meters away. Another flick of the powerful extension swipes at Maokai and Ryze, stopping their bothersome barrage of saplings and bolts.

The renowned figures of the League rise again, only to find themselves quickly assaulted without rest. With another shriek, Goliath raises all of his limbs, and crashes them down at once, sending a rippling shockwave through the ground. Sheets and spikes of crystal and ore begin rupturing through the ground like stalagmites. Unable to spare even a moment of respite, the men and women of the Institute fight through a growing weariness to stay alive.

With the Scour temporarily immobilized from the heft of its own attack, the mercenary-knight seeks to take advantage of the opportunity. Speedy footwork steers clear of the fierce spikes protruding around him as he runs, breaking through any that bar him from a straight path to his target. The ground starts to tremble again as the creature begins to recover its strength to raise itself back up. Refusing to give up the opportunity, Ephrial persists through the crumbling terrain. A mighty swing flashes into the belly of the titan with a blaze. As if in slow motion for just a moment, he sees the faint glitter of some extremely small shards reflecting in the sunlight as they fling off to the side.

Ephrial leaps backward, out of the way of a row of human-sized barbs. _"That's it? A direct hit with full force, and it's shrugged off like a fly bouncing off a window. None of us possess a weapon powerful enough to shatter that incredibly durable shell. Still…there has to be a way."_

The Rune Mage begins conjuring a spell from his book, and combines it with one of the many spells etched into his very body. Raw energy materializes into a cracking sphere in front of him, glowing with condensed power of ancient origin. He hurls it at the living crystal, only for it to bounce off at an awkward angle. The ball of energy continues to bounce, hitting the crystalline spikes jutting out of the ground, traveling wildly around the field before colliding with a rock wall.

"Hey, watch where you're throwing those things!" Alistar yells after a near-miss.

"That wasn't supposed to bounce off!" arguing the point that it wasn't actually the spell everyone is familiar with on the field, bouncing off himself and back to his enemies. "Let's see _you_ do something against that incorrigible armor!"

The bull-headed champion, further pressed by the challenge of the snippy Ryze, charges in, crashing through rock and obstacles that stand in his way. Putting all his strength into his legs, he arches his body and tilts his head down, plowing his horns into the enemy. The tough sleekness causes the points of his horns to slide upward on contact, forcing his head to lift back upwards, and results in Alistar painfully slamming his face into the unblemished wall of organic crystal.

How can any of them hope to stand up against such a powerful foe? An ancient race, beyond their understanding, eclipses them in his massive shadow with indescribable strength. Even an unbreakable blade, empowered by undying fire, can barely scratch the outer layer, if such a miniscule chip could even be counted as such.

With another piercing roar, the Crystal Scour begins showing its true terror. The torn ground fissures from a force underneath. Long, narrow tendrils, with heads like circular sawblades, rise from the cracks. They move as if they have minds of their own, whipping at the champions struggling to survive the onslaught. Another shower of its razor breath mists over them, claiming more ground.

Ephrial evades while reevaluating the condition of the combatants. Malphite, with new scars, tangos with multiple tendrils as glasslike shards shoot into his body, sticking out of him. His treeborn ally swipes away at all sides with fury, saplings running on their own to hug the sawblades into unavailing explosions. Jax and Fiora dance in between projectiles as their weapons parry away at the numerous arms closing in on them. Ryze ducks and runs for cover while frantically flipping the pages in his book, trying to find an effective spell. A cougar and gem knight tussle with their deadly surroundings, laboring to find any opportunity to call upon their respective healing magics. The Great Steam Golem, in much need of repairs, fist-fights with a sawblade as Ezreal shoots down a number of airborne shards above them.

The Blazing Swordsman sidesteps a row of needlelike missiles, then rolls out of the way of a shooting Alistar, flying by after a nasty collision with Goliath's tail. The ardent blade deflects the path of a lurching saw, diverging it into the ground just next to his feet, allowing him to leap past it. Cerulean eyes scan at the dangers ahead.

He notices Riven, her blade planted into the ground next to her as she sits there on her knees. She hyperventilates as her hands grip her head, and her eyes give a very wide, thousand-yard stare. Her teeth clench as the screams of agony of those around her fill the air amidst the sound of an overwhelming battle. Ephrial looks above, spotting the burst of hellish hail headed right for the Exile.

 _"_ _Why isn't she moving…!?"_ running thoughts as fast as his legs. _"Could that be…post-traumatic stress disorder…?"_

The whistling shards draw closer, their light blue shade glimmering as they hit the sun's rays.

"Riven!" he leaps forward, his hand extending outward for her shoulder.

As soon as his feet land, he pulls her to the side with him. The hasty force drags Riven from her catatonic state, causing them to roll across the dust, and out of the way of an ugly death. A few of the passing shards create a couple of new tears in his cape.

"Snap out of it! This battle is not yet over, soldier!" the mercenary-knight asserts, inches from her face, taking a role of a commanding officer in order to reach her across time itself.

As if waking up from a terrible nightmare, her reddish-brown eyes meet his fiery, oceanic gaze. He rises, taking her hand with him, drawing Riven to her feet, and back to an unfortunate reality. With a heavy mix of wanting to pull her out of the fight, but knowing full well that her strength is needed to achieve some hope of victory, he lifts the broken blade, and hands it to her with a set mind.

"We can't allow this destruction to spread further!"

"This is hopeless! We have to retreat!" the Prodigal Explorer protests.

"There won't be anywhere to retreat if we fail here!"

"What can we do!? We cannot even dent zis thing," Fiora's ego being forced aside.

Ephrial steps past Riven, shattering another volley of death into a glittering blaze of fire and fragments. "I'm not giving in!" the fervor he is known for in battle escalates.

Resolve and willpower rush onward, contending with the various formations of crystals along the way. The champions of the League get sucked into his persistence, continuing to fight, but with weary bodies and spirits.

Riven stares at the unrelenting swordsman, slowly recomposing herself. The gauntlet tightens around her blade, and she rejoins the fray, fighting both the internal and external battles involved. She fixes her mindset to the one she knows best: the Noxian way. The Exile pushes through, but not without the competing pull of regret inside of her—the doubt of what used to be the sturdiest pillars of her beliefs. She fights, but with a fragmented soul.

The battle of exhausting torment continues, and the injuries taken remain one-sided. Saw-like tendrils that pepper the ground submerge out of sight once again, causing a wave of ominous confusion to wash over the group. One sweep of a massive tail, and two face-like claws hammering into the ground, create a seismic shockwave that scatters the mixed company of fighters.

Beaten and bloodied, the men and women pick themselves up with great exertion. The merciless beast follows with a wave of narrow stalagmites, starting from the outer ring of the battlefield, closing in to the space in front of Goliath himself. Half of the combatants rush to the middle, and the others barely manage to avoid getting skewered on the side.

Ephrial, among those separated from the cluster, rushes to the aid of Riven and the others. The dragon-like tail slams down in front of him, causing everyone to stumble and lose their balance. The mercenary-knight, prone to the floor, slowly begins lifting his upper body on his arms to look up at his ally and fellow League champions.

A sudden, eerie glow of dark red catches everyone's attention. All eyes look high up at the transparent throat of the colossus, watching a growing globe of dark energy swelling within. An odd silence takes the air as they witness the charging ball of unknown power prime itself, arcs of electricity sparking in its orbit.

Without warning, an extremely narrow beam of red and black energy spouts from Goliath's mouth like a laser, sweeping along the ground in a swift line out in front of him. The trajectory starts up close, and shreds outwards, past the champions, and up a wall of rock. A brief moment of stillness, and one heartbeat in the middle of a foreboding silence later, and the scene combusts in a monumental explosion, flashing a blinding light in its wake.

"RIVEEEN!" Ephrial exerts the capacity of his lungs, reaching out in a helpless extension of his hand.

Fire and soot fall around the survivors—those separated from the doomed cluster. The land is terraformed into a fiery crumble of earth and crystal. Sunlight no longer shines on the field, barred by the shroud of ash encasing the entire area like a dome. The only light remaining comes from the spreading flames of the newly-formed hell that the remaining champions find themselves in. With spirits broken like the ground beneath their feet, the last of the contenders begin feebly fighting for the final sliver of their vitality, targeted one-by-one.

Ephrial can only continue staring at the spot he saw Riven disappear in the explosion, hoping for some kind of movement; some kind of miracle. As the dust clears, he sees the remnants of the fallen. Taric's shattered shield, a severed spear, an indestructible scroll, and pieces of familiar attire and armor pepper the ground. Scanning eyes come across a runic blade, the remaining fragments searing a molten red from the blast. A flurry of emotions and thoughts race in the half-blood's mind.

How…? How can this happen? Just like that, gone… Barely on the first steps of our journey, and everything is torn away in the blink of an eye. Every time… Anyone I put my faith in—everyone I fight for or alongside; everybody I become the slightest bit close to…always…

A heavy heart clenches the hilt of an ardent blade. With nothing left to lose, and nothing left to fight for, he rises to his feet in pain. Is this really what it all comes down to…? Surely, there must be more to life than monsters and men fighting, with death and injustice shadowing the world.

The fire of Ephrial's blade dances in an intensifying waltz of passion and fury. There **must** be some recourse…there _has_ to be… There absolutely **_has_** to be a way to fight this chaos…! And it starts with destroying whatever obstacles lie in wait!

"I won't let it end here!" an unbreakable will shouts at an unstoppable foe.

As if in response, Goliath lets out another shrill howl. A fanged claw chases the now one-armed Skarner, snapping at him as the scorpion scuttles and skids out of the way. Malphite, barely standing, sends a volley of earth, wheeling toward the gut of the unrelenting serpent. A minotaur, refusing to die, jumps onto the other head-like arm, bashing away in futile attempts to crack the crystalline casing.

"VULNERABILITIES DETECTED," Blitzcrank lies immobile, almost half destroyed. "INTERIOR ORGANIC STRUCTURE SUSCEPTIBLE TO VARIOUS ELEMENTAL, CAUSTIC, AND PHYSICAL FORMS OF TRAUMA," he continues computing gathered information from the cataclysmic attack.

"Are you saying that thing on the inside is…flesh?" Ephrial calls over.

"AFFERMATIVE. MOST EFFICIENT AND PROBABLE COURSE OF ACTION CALCULATED. SELF-PRESERVATION PROTOCOLS: OVERWRITTEN."

"Exactly what are you up to, Blitzcrank?"

"MODIFIED HEXTECH CORES ARE UNSTABLE WHEN SUBJECTED TO EXTREME TEMPERATURE CHANGES IF LEFT UNCHECKED. THE RESULT CAN LEAD TO SPONTANIOUS COMBUSTION IF INTRODUCED TO TEMPERATURES ABOVE 3,000 DEGREES FARENHEIT."

The doors of the golem's chest whizz open, and a metal hand reaches inside. With his last functional limb, he pulls on something with a loud snap and fizzling of static.

"LIGHT HIM UP," he golem quips, showing once more the human capacity he has evolved.

He fires off his rocket fist, carrying a round object in its grip. Before it can reach its full destination, a spiteful tail slams down on the golem, cutting his arm's propulsion short. The robot's intention carries itself out anyway, the momentum of the object tossing it through the air, and into Ephrial's grasp.

Catching the object with one hand, he observes it. It's Blitzcrank's hextech core, modified for combat in the League at his request…an attempt to find a place for him to fit in. An endeavor Ephrial himself can understand. The core simmers, still hot from producing the heat and steam necessary to carry out a combative robot. A fiery swordsman ignores the stinging, examining the noble sacrifice and tying it into the steam golem's words. One might see this object as a mere hunk of bolts and screws, but those appreciative of a true spirit, especially in this very moment, may see otherwise—a heart of gold.

Entrusted with a glimmer of hope, and armed with the resolve to see it through, Ephrial rushes headlong toward the Crystal Scour. The fire in his eyes is matched only by the blade that mirrors his fervor. The saw-like tendrils sprout again, swinging wildly at the final breaths of their targets.

The mercenary blazes through the razor teeth waving at him like crude scythes. His blade answers theirs, with unbreakable metal heated enough to cause visible marks against the integrity of the diamondlike exoskeleton. An uneven terrain provides an awkward, but effective ramp to Malphite's shoulder.

"How good is your throwing arm?" without taking his burning gaze off the hydra-esque opponent.

The elemental being turns his head, quickly gathering the swordsman's intent. Malphite responds with a grin, "Rock solid."

It isn't the first time the Shard of the Monolith has been asked to hurl an ally toward a destination, often receiving this request in a League match. Holding out his palm, he allows the mercenary-knight to leap aboard. With the remainder of his strength, Malphite winds up, and launches Ephrial toward the crystal serpent's head before the tendrils subdue his hulking frame.

A familiar reddish glow forms as he gains altitude. Good…an opportunity that can't be more well-timed. With the piece of magical technology at the ready, Ephrial positions himself for an all-or-nothing gambit. As his momentum drifts to a halt, Goliath's mouth begins opening for one more devastating beam of apocalyptic destruction.

The Blazing Swordsman hurls the shot of hope into the tremendous mouth. With a twist of his body, he sends a flaring bolt from his blade after it. A direct hit sends the core down the monster's throat with fierce velocity.

Blitzcrank's life-force begins glowing white-hot before disappearing into the void that is Goliath's gaping jaws. The red glow of the charging beam of desolation becomes disrupted, bursting with a flash of an electric field akin to that of the golem's static field.

As Ephrial succumbs to gravity, a grand explosion unfolds with the colliding spheres of energy. The fire from a passion-fueled blade, and powerful energy within Goliath's attack, detonates the core into a brilliant surge of light and heat.

Unable to see his surroundings, the half-blooded swordsman feels himself descend through layers of glasslike sheets. He crashes through a half a dozen before landing onto the dismantled ground. Exhausted after having spent his second wind, he slowly picks himself up. Breaking through remnants of the crystal hydra, in turn, broke his fall…painfully.

Silence takes over Kalamanda once again, and the sunlight begins to peer through as the cloud of ash disperses as a result of the shockwave. Ephrial takes his time to recompose himself, sitting alone in the aftermath. Bruised and battered, with blood dripping out of the corner of his mouth and various gashes on his body, he strains to sheathe his sword.

Before he even has a chance to begin processing the events that have just transpired, a ticking of a clock approaches from the South.

"Oh…is this where I am late? It's just like Urtistan…" an old time magician roams into the ruins.

"Another one…?" a weary mercenary observes the hovering champion of the League.

"I suspect it has not happened yet. Or has it…? Perhaps soon? All in good time, I suppose…" mumbling to himself as he approaches.

"Zilean… You were fortunate enough to be late, for once," he remarks at the auspicious timing of a normally-punctual man.

The deceivingly aged man laughs.

"…Exactly what do you find amusing in all of this…?" the memories of his losses stir into a balling fist.

"I knew you were going to say that!"

"I'm far from a mood to play games. Why are you here?"

"That, too!"

Shaking his head, Ephrial turns to a wayward destination to nowhere. He brushes the mad ramblings of Zilean off as a product of his disease, chrono-dysplasia. A result born of a tragedy behind the destruction of Urtistan in a Rune War many years ago. It causes his mind to shift between various moments in time, both past and future, in spontaneous moments, often without warning. Perhaps a useful ability in the League, but otherwise a tormenting curse of constant grief as he relives the loss of his people time and time again.

"What if I said there was a way to bring her back?" Zilean calls out as the mercenary steps away.

Halting at the unexpected suggestion, Ephrial turns around. "…If there is, you do not want to keep it from me."

"You are aware of the temporal field that was created to stop the war between Demacia and Noxus here, correct? The device Heimerdinger and I created for the event still yet remains, however inactive."

"Go on."

"With the right addition to the machine, it can be used to reverse time."

"Didn't that contraption require hundreds of summoners with precision? Perhaps you have a lot of catching up to do, but the Institute isn't something we can trust."

"Ah, no need to worry about gathering the summoners again. After all, it already happened once!" cryptically skipping an explanation on his reasoning.

"Speak plainly, Chronokeeper! I haven't time to decipher what and _when_ you mean."

"Yet, time is what you indeed have! Er…six days, twenty-three hours, forty-two minutes, and thirty seconds, to be precise. The machine I had previously mentioned—wait…did I mention it already?"

"Time-machine. Kalamanda. Required addition," Ephrial speeds Zilean back on track.

"Yes, the machine would require a prism of the utmost pristine formation in order to refract the chrono-capacitor's output, and allow a complete recycle of the continuum matrix that has—"

"I'm going to have to stop you right there… A prism? Such as a gemstone or crystal? Take a look around. There should be plenty," pointing out the massive quantities of crystal shards and unearthed precious stones that sparked Kalamanda's fame.

"Oh, none of these will do in the slightest! But you already knew that, didn't you…?" Shaking his head and snapping back to the present, "Right, not yet. In the frozen mountains of the Freljord, caves are known to harbor the most impeccable relics of True Ice from the ancient days. One in particular is known as 'Avarosa's Eye'. It is of no particular value other than a historical artifact, but its flawless curve and transparency make it the perfect chrono-refractor."

"I suppose, if anyone, Ashe would be the type of person to loan something of that value in order to prevent a disaster like this one…"

"Unfortunately, the whereabouts of the Eye have not been discovered."

"What…!? Then why are you—"

"—Yet! They have not been discovered _yet_. You have to find it first! I believe it was located…hm…I lost track," stroking his beard.

Given the small thread of hope that he can undo the catastrophe he stands in the middle of, Ephrial sets himself adamant to it. Wishing to embark on this new objective, and to speed up an unorthodox conversation, he attempts to gather only the necessary information.

"Very well, Time Keeper. When I obtain this relic, what do I need to do?"

"Bring it here to me and I'll take care of the rest."

"Sounds simple… Too Simple. Why are you helping me?"

"It is _simply_ a necessary step toward the future," another cryptic statement, much to the fault of chrono-dysplasia. "Assuming I have double-checked my research, and I'm sure I have…or I will…the device will be able to turn back time a full one hundred and sixty-eight hours. That is the current limit to its function, if my calculations are correct. And they are."

"Seven days…"

"Six days, twenty-three hours, thirty-eight minutes, and fifty-five seconds, actually. Depending on when you wish to turn back to."

"I'll leave the timekeeping to you. All I have to do is acquire this 'Avarosa's Eye' and bring it back here in less than a week, right? That's a long trip… Just how am I supposed—"

"Head to the Institute. There, you will find aid that will cut your trip by thirteen days, twenty hours, thirty-two minutes, and five seconds," jumping ahead of the question.

"…I see. Very well," he turns toward the North.

"I shall be waiting for you right here, Blazing Swordsman! Or…will I be standing right here? Or over there? Well, depending on if he runs into that fiendish polar bear…" he begins rambling off in time again.

Sent with a possibility of reversing the death toll that has occurred, he begins traveling to the Institute of War with a new objective. His breath, laboring more by grief rather than battle, finds a forced rhythm. Just like many times before, he is reminded of the fateful words that follow him like a shadow.

Keep moving forward. You don't have to forget, but don't stop. Just keep moving forward…

Even a chance for a chance to reverse a tragedy is a gift, however slim the odds. Even if the opportunity wasn't there years ago when he wished for it the most… Pushing doubt aside, he puts one more hope on top of his present ambition. He wishes, that after the machine is operated, just this once…he _could_ forget. The last thing he needs is another nightmare seared into his memory, only to play back over and over. Another failure. Another loss.

With steps of determination and guilt, he strides forward against the clock. The path he chose to align himself with is not over yet… It cannot end like this. Cerulean eyes, brimming with fire, keep fixed forward, ready to blaze through whatever dares stand in his way.

Ephrial travels the road once again, this time, to challenge the inexorable repetition of fate…

alone.


	17. Chapter 17: Summoner's Vault

**-  
Chapter 17**

 ** _Summoner's Vault_**

Like a swift shadow, Ephrial makes his way through the ruins of what used to be the front doors to the Institute. The finely-polished marble floors and columns that decorated the interior are now reduced to rubble. Banners and curtains bear the scars of a severe battle. Signs of recovery show in the lack of remnants, belonging to summoner and transfigured minion alike, and debris having largely been swept to the sides of the halls.

The League is on high-alert, with guards posted at every entrance. Knowing that the deep-seeded corruption within has rendered the Institute untrustworthy, the Blazing Swordsman proceeds without taking chances. He cannot allow his presence to be known, lest countermeasures are taken, and he brings further danger to the remaining champions. There's no doubt that such a large disturbance in the Crystal Scar would catch the attention of the League, especially the mysterious faction that had set the trap to begin with. With any luck, they will count him as dead, and he can remain hidden from the eyes of those responsible for this chaos.

With time being of the essence, Ephrial continues sneaking his way inward. The holes that have been blasted in the very walls, as well as ruptured ceilings, allow passage from room to room in the most impractical ways, evading the sights of the sentinels. As far as he's concerned, he is in hostile territory. Maintaining his cover is imperative, limiting his resources to his quickness and cunning. Using his signature blade, letting anyone see his face, or otherwise compromising his identity, cannot be allowed.

He peers over a corner, reaching the inevitable point where three guards stand poised at the end of a hallway, with no way past them other than straight through. Grabbing what looks like a robe left behind by one of the deformed minions, he swings it around himself, and strides down the hallway as if he belongs there.

"Halt!"

"No one is allowed to roam the halls unescorted!"

Ephrial ignores their orders, his pace unwavering. Once he's in range of them, he dashes forward. The back of his palm swipes away the poised head of a halberd, stepping well inside the sentinel's guard, preventing him from being able do anything with it. A swift kick to the knee disrupts a neighboring sword from being unsheathed, crippling the second guard. Back to his initial target, a solid right hook slams into a helmet, allowing Ephrial to grab the polearm from a failing grip, and swing it widely along the ground as he dips behind the enemy line. The three guards are knocked off of their feet, and at once, begin to recover in order to combat the intruder. Before any of them can rise off of their elbows, the mercenary-knight drops the halberd in front of himself, parallel to the ground, and with a well-placed boot, kicks it straight into the trio of helmets, sending them into a rattling unconsciousness. Without skipping a beat, Ephrial turns around, ditching the improvised cloak behind himself.

The determined half-blood resumes his journey deeper into the Institute, unaware of what he was sent here to look for. His only guess, judging by the clue Zilean gave him, is some method of transportation. Perhaps a zeppelin or some sort, seeing as how Zaun and Piltover have competed viciously in their annual races, using the League's resources to better their innovations. Ephrial quickly dismisses the idea as he would not know how to fly such a device. Another thought comes to mind, though perhaps as futile as the first. He dares to set his path to the most heavily-guarded of all places in the institute: the "Summoner's Vault" in the Arcanum Majoris. It is the chamber in which all of the original artifacts are housed in while their replicas take their places on the Fields of Justice. Even more, it is a workshop for the creation of more powerful artifacts as advanced summoners strive to refine their skills, crafting unique weapons and armor to be used in the League.

With a handful of rooms cleared, and a trail of unconscious guards, he arrives at the magic-clad entrance of the Institute's most secure sanctum. Two enormous doors bar the way, covered in various glowing runes, some etched into the very doors while others hover just above the surface. The various circles of magic rotate at different speeds, each their own size and color. They look like gears in motion, acting as tumblers of a one-of-a-kind lock that must be triggered in a very particular way with the utmost precision.

In front of the masterpiece of security, a row of elite summoners stand vigilant. Their long, delineating robes shadow their faces. While most entry-class summoners pick a banner to represent, those whom wish to climb to higher ranks must abstain or forfeit their allegiances in order to cross into the elite divisions. Their loyalty must be to the League, and to the balance and order it is meant to uphold, meaning they can harbor no favoritism for any nation or faction. They become fierce instruments, wielded by the three High Councilors of Equity. With Heywan's conviction in the Institute's scandals, and the mysterious summoner messenger claiming that a High Councilor issued the order to gather champions to Kalamanda's trap, Ephrial knows the Elite summoners are bound to be corrupted to the High Councilors' whims.

From the corner of a wall, he stealthily studies the shrouded men and women just ahead, searching for some course of action that might even the odds against extremely powerful magic. While it is very possible his sword can block a few magical attacks, it is debatable if he would _want_ to. Destructive blasts can only be so mitigated by few feet of metal, and the slightest bit of impeding force to slow him down can spell out a hasty death. A form of distraction is in order, just long enough to get the drop on them and leave one standing in order to open the doors…

Footsteps approach from behind, and a steady hand of resolve does not hesitate. Fire arcs out of a sheath, stopping under the chin of a purple hood with a familiar face as it turns the corner behind him.

"HOLY SH—"

Ephrial moves the blade out of the way and covers the mouth of the summoner he had once knocked out during his first intrusion of the Institute.

"You… If you're in on this, too…!" a sharp, cerulean gaze.

"No—! I just followed the trail of guards you left behind!" matching a hushed tone. "You sure have a knack for roughhousing summoners, Ephrial."

"That's about to become an understatement," his blade flares lively.

A discerning mind, having once connected with the mage in front of him, quickly surmises a conclusion. Being as new to the Institute as himself, there is no way he could have gathered the credibility, much less the skill, to become included and enveloped with the schemes involving the Institute. Shared minds during the battle underground have found no reason for discord or distrust between the two, and Ephrial sheathes his blade

"Tell me, Summoner…what do you know of the situation?"

"Ricky," the young graduate crosses his arms.

Ephrial takes a breath out of an Ionian-level of patience, despite the race against time. "…Tell me, Ricky, what do you know of the situation?"

"Well…after we finally cleared the Institute of those…things…a curfew was issued, and we've been kind of kept in the dark about everything since."

"A curfew?"

"Yeah. We're not allowed to roam the halls this late, and we're **especially** not allowed anywhere near this wing," glancing worriedly around the empty hall. "They won't even let any of the summoners leave to go back to their own nations."

"So…they want to keep this whole thing under wraps for as long as they can. That means they still have some ways to go before whatever they are planning can be achieved."

"What do _you_ know of what's going on?" the novice turns the inquiry around.

"Just that there is something inside that vault I need…and that you're going to help me get it," determination brimming.

"Are you crazy!?" Do you know what that place is? That's impossible!"

"With the numerous strange things that exist, 'impossible' is a weightless word in Runeterra."

"Seriously, I wouldn't know the first thing on how to open that place up. There are very few privileged personnel allowed access in there. Only senior summoners and high security possess the means of entry."

"High security…" A trustworthy name comes to mind. "Where is Kayle?"

"Beats me. No one has seen her since most of the champions of the institute were swept away in the blink of an eye."

 _"_ _The Master Nexus…"_ he murmurs to himself. "You said 'most'. Who's left?"

"As far as I know, only those kept captive in the dungeons remain."

"I see…" contemplating the fate of the champions of the institute.

"Look, I may not be of much help to you right now, but perhaps you can help me. Some of the other summoners and I have been talking about ways to break out of here, but we're a little lacking on the resource department…"

"That's not something I have time for right now. I need to get inside that vault."

"Perhaps _I_ can be of assistance," a third voice enters the scene.

"Who—…wait…is that…!?" a startled Ricky utters.

"High Councilor Vessaria Kolminye," Ephrial says flatly, with a glare.

A strikingly beautiful woman approaches with robes as ornate as a royal throne.

"Must you look at me with such distrust?" she meets oceanic eyes.

"Call me old-fashioned, but trust has to be earned. Curfews and armed guards at every door is not a good start."

"Merely precautions, I assure you. There has never been an attack on the Institute such as the likes of this one. We must do all that is necessary to assure that what happened here does not happen outside of these walls."

"Just what **_did_** happen here?" prying for an answer.

"That is still under investigation. Until further notice, we are not to discuss details of the matter, lest we invite some rather…unwanted attention. Tell me, Blazing Swordsman, you storm into the Institute, incapacitating all those in your way, and make the daring attempt to reach the most heavily secured chamber in our establishment… What is it you seek with such perseverance?"

"…A means to reach the same conclusion as you have previously stated," carefully calculated words attempt to open a progression.

Raising her eyebrow while looking at a pair of unconscious guards, "By doing 'all that is necessary', I take it?" Realizing her words and point have been cunningly thrown back at her, the faintest of smiles paints itself across her face. "Very well, Newcomer. I believe your defense of the Master Nexus has earned yourself a modicum of trust," she begins leading the way around the corner and toward the elite mages guarding the rune-covered doors. "You may come, too, Summoner Ricky. I believe you played your role as well."

The novice summoner, frozen with chills, forces himself to follow after, keeping close to Ephrial. His worry of the unfolding conspiracies he has found himself in the midst of begins forming a sense of paranoia.

"You are dismissed," a commanding voice disperses the row of elite summoners from their posts.

The champion and summoner observe the High Councilor as she raises a palm toward the barrier of magic and negatron coating. A subtle light begins forming a circle beneath her feet, then spirals into a bright rune of magical energy. With a series of flashes, more begin appearing out of thin air around her, each matching up to their respective doppelgangers on the obstruction ahead. Intense concentration and precise form conjure the sigils to float towards their mirrors, rotating in the opposite directions of the door's seals. They begin spinning faster and faster, slowing down the seals and causing them to shift rotation in the same direction and speed as the unlocking spells. One by one, they achieve their harmony, and their various colors turn white before dissolving. With a thundering click from within, the doors open.

"Let us proceed," Vessaria leads inward.

The chamber is exceedingly expansive, like a small town in its own. Shelves taller than buildings tower in rows like a library for giants, each slot filled with a priceless relic or tome of mystic background. Display cases for the most esteemed collections decorate the floor with exquisite and ancient pieces of history and power. Everything from the rugs lain on the floors, to the banners hanging high on the walls, is gilded in ornate finery. The windowless archive and workshop is lit only by the bluish luminescent runes and carvings that also serve as crown molding along every border, wall, and shelf.

"Wow…so this is what the inside of the Arcanum Vault is like…" Ricky, bewildered at the sight of what no one of his beginning rank has ever been privileged to lay eyes upon before.

"Relics and artifacts of untold power and potential, as far as the eyes can see," the High Councilor summarizes. "Now, as you can imagine, I cannot just simply let any of these leave this place for the sake of casual means. Tell me, what is the desired nature of such a device that you seek? Destructive power? Invisibility? A shield against spells?"

"Ow!" Summoner Ricky flaps his hand in pain after reaching for an item off an adjacent rack, much to his regret.

"I must, of course, warn you that no small measures were taken with the safety of our collection. If you wish to obtain a piece, you will need me to disarm the protective barrier first. So…what will it be?" turning back to the mercenary-knight.

"…Movement," Ephrial says vaguely, stalling with short answers as he peruses the displays and shelves within close reach.

"Surely you did not go through such lengths to reach this far for a pair of Mobility Boots. What kind of movement do you have in mind?" further probing as she walks across from him, keeping a close, but watchful distance.

"…Perhaps something…quicker."

"You'll have to be more specific than that," almost a playful tone.

"Why are you inclined to help me so quickly?" cutting to the point.

"Have I not already stated why? You prevented the escape of the League's most dangerous creatures, stopping untold bloodshed from soaking the soil of Valoran. You are no threat to the Institute."

"And yet, the Institute recognizes itself as a threat," implying the imposed curfew as well as Vessaria's mention of unwanted attention.

"Yes. The embarrassment of Heywan has not yet been forgotten. This is why we must exercise extreme caution, lest another attack comes to finish the job."

"Just what is the condition of the Master Nexus?" the novice joins in.

"I'm afraid it remains inoperable for the time being. No physical damage was done, but a form of sabotage, yet to be deciphered, has rendered the Nexus null for all intents and purposes."

"…I heard that one of the High Councilors had dispatched a small expedition sent to check on the nexuses in the Crystal Scar. Any word of their findings?" Ephrial introduces the event that brought him here.

"The Crystal Scar? I've no previous knowledge of this affair. If what you say is true, then I've no doubt Grieve is the one to have issued such an order."

"Grieve? Senior Summoner Grieve?" Ephrial recalls his brief encounters with him right before his Judgement trial and in the Master Nexus chamber.

"It is High Councilor Grieve now, if you have not yet heard. His promotion was rather recent, in order to fill the gap in the balance that is the High Councilors of Equity. He is often…enigmatic at times, but no more than Mandrake herself. Nonetheless, she had elected Grieve as a worthy candidate, and I seconded it."

"An administration that holds the power to elect their own co-representatives hardly seems balanced to me."

"Quite so. Which is why we held a vote with all of the bodies of summoners held in the most elite ranks of each respective city-state partner with the League. Grieve won with the majority vote, despite the Ionian dissenters' protesting."

"I would think that an empty seat for a High Councilor of the Institute being filled would be big news."

"The public announcement of his ascension to the title was cut short by this unprecedented assault on our own soil. As you can imagine, we would like to refrain from news of our current…situation from being spread faster than we can mend it."

"What about all of the champions that were teleported across Runeterra?"

"An incredibly unfortunate side-effect of the Master Nexus' failing. On top of that, we cannot summon them back, meaning the witness they bear of these events has most likely taken wind across the lips of Runeterrians from all over. However, very few know the true severity of our present condition. That brings us back to the matter at hand… Providing you with aid in a mutual goal."

"I see. You cannot trust your own summoners, so you employ the service of someone that has not been affiliated with any faction, much less the League, with my very short time here," Ephrial, reading between the lines.

"Well, you **_are_** a mercenary, are you not?"

"Depends on your perspective."

"Quaint. Exactly what I would expect from the 'mercenary who cannot be bought; the knight that cannot be sold'," quoting the murmurs and gossip following his deeds that define his legend. "A sword with no price, and loyalty that cannot be commanded. That is precisely why I would entrust to you a relic of our collection. You would not use it against us, much less the order and justice you so crave."

"…Very well," being satisfied with Vessaria's open responses for the time being. "I've come here to seek the means to travel to the Freljord and back by the quickest of methods."

"The Freljord, you say? That is quite a journey from here…and one too wayward, even for a traveler such as yourself. Why do you seek passage there and back with the utmost haste?" curiosity piqued.

"For reasons I will keep to myself."

"Still don't trust me?"

"The less known about my whereabouts, the less 'unwanted attention' there will be."

The High Councilor examines his gaze, seeing that fiery determination swimming in a pool of disciplined collectedness. One again, her own words come back at her, and a sneer carves itself on her lips, but with a degree of admiration.

"Very well, Master Swordsman. Follow me."

Vessaria leads Ephrial to the far side of the chamber, passing by numerous artifacts of the massive collection. Ricky follows silently, feeling out of place in a conversation of politics and war.

"These don't look very promising," approaching a workbench at the inviting gesture of the Councilor.

"The latest tinkerings of our most esteemed crafters, based on the salvaged research notes of our former Lead Archeologist and Master Artificer, Alowicious Chucat. Fortunately, Ramune Numer, his successor, was able to continue the project in his stead. Mere stones to the average person, but they are vessels of a highly elaborate form of magic."

Ephrial picks up a small stone tablet the size of a Graggy Ice bottlecap, and no thicker than a few coins stacked together. On one side, a rune has been carefully engraved. On the other, the emblem of Noxus is painted on the surface.

"Elaborate, huh?"

"Is there a better word to describe the control of space and time itself? Summoning, you see, is the art of connecting with one particular being—one specific life-force in an ocean of innumerable sources. One must not only reach, but resonate with such a source in order to establish a link. Once that link has been achieved, the target can be 'summoned' to a designated point. It is a pull through space and time itself, and no small feat. For some time now, we have been trying to discover a way to harness that pull into a 'push', so-to-speak."

"A push?" Ephrial, looking at the tablets with various nations' emblems painted on them."

"We can bring something towards us, and set it down to a specific point, even from beyond other dimensions. However, putting something _toward_ a location, namely ones we cannot see during the process, is a far different formula altogether. It's not as simple as reversing the process of summoning. Allow me to demonstrate…"

Well-polished nails pluck a stone with a simple square symbol brushed on it. She takes a few steps towards a nearby chair standing on a pedestal, and with a flick of her wrist, flings the stone at the piece of furniture. With a loud snap, the stone breaks with partial ease, and a small vortex of light and magic quickly envelope the chair. At the same time, a ball of light materializes over an empty pedestal, forming a small rainbow vortex of its own, and the chair appears in its new location, as quickly as it had disappeared.

"…A teleportation spell, but without the cast time and the need for a specific target," the silent summoner speaks up.

"And with far greater potential."

"…Such as the ability to immediately transport something, or someone, directly from here to anywhere in Runeterra?" the gears in Ephrial's mind begin working out the many factors in such a concept.

"Theoretically. This _is_ still experimental, after all. Who knows what oddities and…errors might occur."

"It's almost like the Master Nexus. Without much warning, other than a glimpse of light, and without a casting time, the champions of the League were teleported out of the Institute. Am I to take it that the Master Nexus itself was involved with the development of these stones?" Ricky contemplates.

"How very astute, young summoner. Yes, you are right to assume such, as that is very well the case. It is no secret, of course, that nexuses contain immense amounts of raw magical energy. Much of its potential has still yet to be discovered. Chucat's research has yielded an incredible window of opportunity, and all of the hard work behind it may pay off this very day."

"You mentioned the risk of some possible…effects. Is there any documentation of organic subjects post-teletransportation?" a scholar finds himself in a subject closer to his element, fascinated with the experimental concept.

"As far as I know, there has never been an experiment conducted on a living being. I have heard of a rumor involving Ramune's pet degu being accidentally transported alongside a pocketwatch, only to arrive at the landing with some…unpleasant ramifications. Although, I believe that to be only mere workshop humor."

While the two exchange more explanations and theories on the science behind the new frontier of magic, Ephrial keeps his thoughts relevant to the track he set out on.

Summoners use the nexuses to channel their power across the land to create domains of magic where they can conduct summoning, as well as a degree of 'summoner spells' on the Fields of Justice. The network is a vital element to the League and its influence. However, with the known nexuses damaged or destroyed, and a new way of transport without those conduits, Ephrial suspects a new imminent threat. Armies would be able to transverse Runeterra in an instant, rather than weeks, leading to a mess of issues. Surprise attacks would never be more devastating. With such devices in the hands of a group capable of striking a critical blow on the Institute of War, all four corners of the world could be shattered off their foundations within days. Such catastrophic potential already lies within this room… It would be an unstoppable onslaught at the hands of the very organization supposedly born to prevent such destruction. The number of teleportation stones in front of him is few, but creating replicas of a magical object is a specialty of the Institute's artificers. The only step barring them from that is the completion of their study to remove the possibility of errors during transport. Suddenly, Ephrial finds himself racing against more than one clock.

"Are these all there are?" the mercenary-knight cuts in.

"Only Alowicious Chucat would know the answer to that question. He has to physically journey to each place in order to set a waypoint for the spells inside of the tablets. They are not always precise, but the algorithm tends to land the target within the general area."

"I see… Very well, then. With your permission, I would take these for the purpose of resolving the matters at hand."

"I imagine Chucat would be rather cross with me if I allowed _all_ of his research be taken without his consent. You may take what you need, but reserve at least one of each location for the completion of his work."

Ephrial acquiesces with a nod, grabbing the handful available, and leaving one of each symbol on the desk. He pockets all but one bearing the symbol of a blue bow and arrow.

"Are you sure about this?" Ricky, concerned with the risks involved in experimental magic.

The Noxian-Ionian shuts his eyes, clutching the small tablet in a closed fist. Still fresh in his mind, a vivid image appears—a shattered blade glowing red-hot amidst prodigious destruction, serving as the remnants of a last hope that was snatched away. With that ever-burning fire in a cerulean gaze, and steel in his voice, he turns to the questioning summoner.

"It is the only path left for me to take. There is no room for uncertainty."

"Good luck, Blazing Swordsman," Vessaria crosses her arms, eager to see the newfound teleportation magic at work.

Ricky takes a few cautious steps back from the mercenary-knight. "Best of luck, then… Try not to land in a wall or anything."

Ephrial draws a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he prepares for the pioneer voyage of the experimental form of teleportation. A gloved hand raises the small tablet above his head. He hurls the vessel downward at his own feet, and a burst of light envelopes his surroundings. Just like the previous times before, he feels the sensation of being flung through a vast space of air and nothingness; perhaps the "push" the High Councilor described the spell as.

The piercing of an icy chill is the first thing that greets him as his vision recovers from the whiteout. He feels his boots sink deep into the thick blanket of snow and ice. An unforgiving wind howls through the air, and a mild snowfall wisps erratically with it. In the distance, behind the permafrost peaks of the Freljord, dawn cracks through with a gentle glow.

Surrounded by the frozen wilderness, he begins setting one foot in front of the other, the crisp sound of snow crunching beneath him. Each step is firm with resolve against the icy test he has found himself in. Guided only by the cryptic, time-lapsed words of Zilean, he ventures forward with the heavy implication that he is already on the right track. The race against time proceeds further, as this segment of his journey is not yet over…because it hasn't happened yet…and it will happen again.

With no sign of civilization in sight, Ephrial walks with enough fire inside of him to contest the arctic expanse.


	18. Chapter 18: Heart of the Freljord

**-  
Chapter 18**

 ** _Heart of the Freljord_**

The wintry bite of a small blizzard gnaws at the cold steel encasing Ephrial's torso. Frost and chills are kept at bay with the burning blade being held up front, slicing the opposing streams of wind and snow. Sharp eyes narrow to see through the storm, aiming to find some sort of tell-tale sign of civilization.

Piercing gusts whisper to a slow halt, and the treading ice-covered boots pause. With an ominous feeling, silence takes the air. The mercenary-knight examines his surroundings, spotting no visible indication of life. A distant howling echoes off from the distance, capitalizing on the eerily quiet ambience.

With as little warning as a lightning strike, a beastly figure erupts from the ground, sending ice and snow soaring. A grizzly set of claws dive for the traveling swordsman, tearing through the air with a slight whistle. The attack misses its mark, swiping a large chunk of the powdery, white blanket aside.

Ephrial rolls along the frozen layers, snow catching onto his hair and cape, and a streak of melting ice trails behind his sword as it scrapes along. Ready for battle, the Blazing Swordsman raises his eyes to examine his opponent. Before him stands a creature with the body and enlarged claws of a lion, and the head of an unnatural variation of yak. Horns of blue ice tilt in his direction, and powerful legs charge through the tundra.

The fiery mercenary-knight dives out of the way, choosing to evade rather than counterattack. He is not equipped, nor adequately experienced, for combat in heavy snow, and so he must adapt quickly. Ephrial plunges the blade into the soft sheets of the wintery veil, subtly thawing the ground in front of him into a slush. As the unknown creature charges once more, the warrior of resolve ducks and side-steps underneath a maiming claw, remaining in close range.

Faltering in its attack, snow-ripping claws slip and slide across the pool of water over ice. With the glassy momentum working in its favor, a fiery blade sweeps through, with a clean, precise cut. A shrill howl, and the beast fumbles over itself, leaving behind a trail of bluish blood before landing in a snowdrift. With a labored, yet furious growl, it slowly picks itself up and angrily glares at Ephrial.

Upon further inspection, he notices that the oddity only has one eye. What manner of creature is this? As new as the swordsman is to the deep Freljord, he has never encountered, nor heard of, a being of this description. It has a mane of the purest white, and the horns as blue and transparent as ice. Despite the snorting of fury and pain, there is no mouth, causing Ephrial to question whether this monster is of this plane or not. However, being on a tight schedule, he has no time to play around. He must find out where he is meant to find the Eye of Avarosa, and this creature stands in his way.

Without hesitation, Ephrial dashes forward, weapon at the ready. Mustering the strength left within, the strange beast dips its head low, then bucks its horns upwards, shoveling snow with a deadly arc. The mercenary-knight steps out of the way, only to find himself in the path of ice-like claws once again. The flat side of the ardent blade saves him from being torn apart, and the force knocks him rolling backwards with the mysterious enemy.

Quick on its hooves, the pale monster turns around abruptly, charging forward to follow up. Whatever this creature is, it has formidable strength and stamina. The next attack comes in as it did before, simple, yet effective. Its first offense acts as a defense as well, and the following strike comes in too swiftly to seize an opportunity in between the two. Additionally, the snow limits the effectiveness of the swordsman's agility, rendering attacks from the side vastly improbable.

Well, as per Noxian tradition, it's time to just go straight through the enemy. Ephrial's blade flares up as he answers the charge with his own. Mid-step, he swipes outward, sending a blazing streak toward the creature's eye. Using the brief moment of blindness to his advantage, he tucks his blade close to his hip, pointing it outwards with his other hand joining on the hilt. A dazed bestial figure launches its horns upwards, just in front of the calculating mercenary. At the first moment of the opening, Ephrial launches his blade into the creature's throat, and holds it in place. With elbows locked, he holds his stance as the weight and momentum of the creature pushes him backwards, sliding him across a sheet of ice, and driving him deeper into the snow. The follow-up claw fails as the creature gurgles and howls, yet keeps urging forward in a panic-induced state.

Teeth gritting, an unshakable resolve keeps Ephrial's body static as his frame gets buried into the snowbank. Quick moments later, and he is completely submerged, along with half of the enigmatic being. Silence is restored again, and a brief pause of stillness would have a bystander think the two shared an equal fate. With an eruption of flame, the snow pile bursts into sleet and steam, revealing a victorious man of fervor.

A few deep breaths, and his attention is directed at another howling. This time, a wave of multiple tones and echoes carry throughout the whispering winds.

"More of them, huh?" Ephrial turns his head to the side, looking up at a view-obstructing mound of snow.

Curiosity of whether this is a sign Zilean left out in his cryptic babbling, or just yet another obstacle in his path, the swordsman climbs the frosty hill. Sounds of battle become more apparent with each step. Reaching the top, cerulean eyes peer over the scene of a village under attack. Shouts of terror and battle-cries mix within the snarling and howling of vicious beasts, each like an unworldly monster. Some have multiple arms, others look more like animals, but they each possess one eye and ice-like horns.

In the heart of the battle, a lone man of extremely burly stature faces off with a surrounding ring of foes. With an enormous shield in his grip, he bashes his enemies one-by-one, shattering icicles-for-claws and tusks under his raw strength. While he holds most of the fight with him, stragglers chase down isolated Freljordians as they flee to the edges of the snowy village.

Ephrial decides to join the fray, sliding down the steep hill with his first target in his sights. As a leopard-like monster stalks an unarmed townsperson from the snow-covered rooftops of the humble housing, the mercenary-knight rushes to the unsuspecting victim's aid. In mid-air, a fatal pounce is prevented by a crashing blade, sundering the predator with the force of fire and gravity, and slamming the beast into the ground with a powerful, overhead cleave.

A sharp gaze of determination and experience rises from the upheaval of snow, and a torn cape flutters behind him with the icy breeze. Panicking villagers run past him as fearsome creatures of ice and flesh terrorize them. Warriors of the population fight to the last of their breath, their resistance being quelled with quick ferocity.

Blade set and feet in motion, there is no holding back in Ephrial's steps or strikes. As innocent people retreat past him, he defends them with a fierce offense. The ardent flames encasing unbreakable alloy creates its own advantage upon enemies, forming weak spots rather than requiring them. However, the nature of these creatures remains unknown, and the true threat they impose has yet to be revealed.

Grimacing howling and cries from mouthless monsters ring out with every slice. The Freljordians provide an effective distraction as Ephrial seizes every opening on his enemies, cutting them down with swift efficiency and decisive strikes. The civilians are now out of the battle zone, and the lack of distractions causes a spike in difficulty for the fervorous swordsman.

Contesting with beasts of eerie, unnatural shapes and sizes, he fights his way toward the champion of might and mustache. A ram-shaped blast of ice plows into a frozen enemy, sending it flying toward Ephrial. With a swift, snow-covered boot, the half-blooded swordsman steps onto the beast and flips over it, landing onto another. Planting his sword deep into the skull of something that seems to resemble an elk, he skids across the snow on top of it, landing behind the _sometimes_ -gentle giant.

After headbutting a ram-like creature into the snow, the hulk known as Braum turns around to see the sharp antlers that would have dealt a critical blow to him. Looking past the icy spikes of piercing death, he witnesses the Blazing Swordsman retract his blade, only to place it into the heart of a flanking enemy.

"Ha-ha! Ephrial! You come to fight, too, no?" a friendly voice chuckles.

"Something like that," kicking a bestial body off of his blade. "What are these things?"

"Ah, yes…" Braum's voice switches to a grave tone. "They were once friends of mine… Now, I release them from their pain." A cryptic answer is given before the tower of muscle smashes the back of his fist into an enemy with a concussive blow, then smashes its head under the heft of his shield.

The two fight together as if in a League match, covering each other from enemy advances, and systematically taking down their foes with a carefully picked order of targets. Frost and fire work in a devastating combination of dazing strikes and stunning blasts. A swarm of foes begins to thin out, and the sea of snow is stained with dark blue blood running from the fallen foes that, otherwise, blend in their white surroundings.

"Good, Ephrial! Good! Fight, like ram! Against…er…ram?" the Freljordian observes a fervorous strike cutting down a goat-like fiend.

The remaining animal-like monsters turn to their inherent instincts of fight or flight, picking the latter. With moans and howls of a vengeful nature, they flee until they are out of sight, disappearing over a distant snowbank.

Sheathing his blade, and steadying his breathing, Ephrial asks, "So…they're friends of yours. Do you have any idea what made them so…twisted?"

"I do, and I believe you two have already met!"

"We have…?"

"The Ice Witch returns to the Freljord, bringing ancient creatures with her. They have turned my friends against me. But not all my friends!" he kneels, and a little poro hops into his large hand, climbing the mountains of muscle on his arm to his shoulder.

"Lissandra… Hm. You seem to be in high spirits despite having to…dispatch your friends like that," observing the aftermath of brutal, crushing blows around them.

"Perhaps you are right, my friend. That's because I get to see and help them one last time before they go."

"I see…" thinking about his past losses, the fresh image of Riven's demise weighing heavily. A hard slap on the back knocks him back to the present, with unintentionally powerful force, causing Ephrial to jolt forward a step.

"Keep your spirits high, friend! When life gives you curdled milk, be patient. You get very good cheese!"

"Right…" rolling his shoulder after the impact. "Do you happen to know anything of the 'Eye of Avarosa'?"

"Hmm…" Barum strokes his mustache in thought. "I have heard this before. Ashe has sent many looking for this 'Eye'."

"It's a historical artifact, so I'm told."

Braum lets out a cheery laugh, "You are treasure hunter now?"

"Not exactly. I need to find it before long…" Ephrial starts toward Rakelstake, the well-known city united by Ashe and Tryndamere after years of civil war between the many tribes.

An abrupt eruption of snow bursts from just ahead of the mercenary-knight. One of the more cunning creatures of the assault had buried itself underneath the layers of frozen precipitation, waiting for an opportune moment to strike. With a hiss, the icy monster launches a stream of ice shards, whistling their way towards Ephrial. Braum's protective nature kicks in, leaping in front of the mercenary-knight; heavily-honed reflexes, due to the fast action of the League.

"Allow Braum!" his shield blocks the needles like twigs snapping against a mountain.

With legendary strength, he raises the heavy shield above his head as he leaps into the air. A thunderous surge crashes down, sending a glacial trail of rising ice running toward the twisted beast. The frozen foe launches upward upon impact, landing with a clear imprint of itself in the snow, motionless. The real magnitude of the strike follows after with a subtle cracking sound. A moment of cautious silence, and the cracking multiplies along with a rumbling underneath their feet.

Visible gaps begin forming rapidly all around them, running outward and winding like snakes crawling erratically. Snow disappears into the fissures, indicating quite a depth. The heavy sound of sundering ice is all around them, and what comes next is obvious to the two. It's too late to make a run for it, seeing how far the frozen terrain has been compromised in such a short span.

"Eh…Sorry. Sometimes Braum does not know his own strength," a guilty expression.

Ephrial crosses his arms, half out of waning patience, and half out of expecting something like this to happen.

"Look on bright side. Now we embark on a grand adventure!" Braum puts a hand on the mercenary's shoulderplate with a big smile, and a cheery poro reappears on top of his shield.

With an Ionian-level temperament, Ephrial lets out a deep sigh. If anything, he must be on the right track. Zilean was indeed correct about finding a means of much faster travel. There is no reason to doubt that he will find the cave in which his objective lies. The confidence and level-headedness of the swordsman decides this may very well be part of the predicted journey he was sent on. If not, however…he'll make up the time by cutting through a mountain if he has to.

One final tumultuous crack, muffled by many layers of snow, and the permafrosted ground beneath gives in. A massive hole forms under their very feet, sending them into a freefall. Calmly, the two go with the flow, letting gravity take its course.

A frigid darkness swallows them as they descend into the unknown.


	19. Chapter 19: Fire and Ice

**-  
Chapter 19**

 ** _Fire and Ice_**

"This cave is not a natural formation," Ephrial takes a few steps, observing his surroundings in all directions.

The man next to him speaks in an accent as thick as his muscles, "The ice…it is...a house?"

"It's way too big to be a house. Some sort of manor, maybe. Perhaps even a castle," looking at ornate patterns along the walls.

Smooth surfaces of True Ice form the floors and walls of an ancient building that has lain dormant for centuries. Pillars and columns twist from the floor to the ceiling in exotic form, providing a luminescent glow like that of sunlight waving through the calm chop of mild waters. Glowworms and iceflies, similar to their firefly cousins, create an additional source of light in the dark below. Despite seemingly being untouched for lifetimes, the area teems with vitality, like a natural reserve underneath the endless Winter above.

"The Freljord keeps many secrets. We are very lucky, eh?" Braum chuckles.

"Well, we're not getting out of here the way we came. There's only one direction left," the mercenary looks toward the sole frozen hallway left passable.

"What is the rush, friend? We have rare opportunity to see the unknown!" He inhales deeply, "Breathe the air! It is the smell of an ancient history!"

"I've someplace to be," Ephrial says flatly, proceeding onward.

"If something troubles you, you made right decision to come to Braum first!" he catches up.

"Thanks…but all I need is that orb."

"I do not understand… Why is Fiery Swordsman looking for icy treasure?"

"I need it…"

"For…collection? Or…perhaps you are trying to impress Ashe…? Sorry, but you are bit too late for that!" Braum laughs in a lighthearted jest.

"…For a friend," Ephrial's words create a weight in the atmosphere around him.

The Heart of the Freljord rubs his scalp in concerned thought. "Is friend…sick?" coming to the only conclusion he can think of, pondering some sort of monetary exchange for the relic, in an aim for desperate medical necessities.

Sick…? What an understatement. Death is not something that can be 'cured'…nor is it something to be messed around with, lest unnatural abominations destroy the peaceful side of it. Necromancy and soul-trapping lanterns have attested to that much, leaving a distasteful train of thought that Ephrial cares not to explore. His endeavor, however, involves neither, and may be the only chance he will ever have to undo a scar. To rewrite fate itself in a rebellious stride against the corruption and injustice that has sought to extinguish what he stands for…and those he stands with.

"…Not if I can help it," his eyes ignite with determination and fervor.

"I see…" the strongman raises his eyebrow at the change of tone, recognizing that conviction Ephrial carries in battle. "If it is that important to Ephrial, then Braum is here to help!"

The poro that follows the shield-bearing ally wherever he goes appears on his shoulder, showing his support with a wide grin and giant tongue sticking out. With echoing steps, they proceed through the glowing corridors of Freljordian history. Paintings of royalty and tribes of long ago hang on the walls, like frozen windows displaying glimpses of the past. Luxurious furniture, tapestry, and ornaments adorn the walls and doors, giving the explorers the inkling of being in a royal palace.

A large break in the path appears, like the very structure was broken in half, where the walls and carpets end, and ice-glazed rock begins. Natural crystals and mineral deposits sparkle in the luminescence, and icicles overhead vastly outnumber the stalagmites prodding from the ground. The diminutive sound of small water droplets falling into a pool echoes rhythmically around them. Only one step separates man-made structures from a scene of nature that has been long left untouched. It is as if the very building was sundered by an earth-shattering force.

Ephrial kneels down at shards of ice that seem very out of place, jutting out from where the corridor splinters off to an end. Their color is that of a midnight blue, refusing to shine further than the mild coruscating of a glossy surface. The transparency is replaced with a murkiness, quite contrast to the ice that forms the broken building.

"This looks like…"

"Dark Ice," Braum finishes for him. "This is not good sign. I wonder what happened here…" looking at traces of the corrupt ice scattered around where the palace ends and the cave begins.

"It looks like there is more of the manor ahead," stepping forward, into the rocky cavern.

"Be careful! The floor! It is—"

"Gah—!"

Ephrial shoots across the ground, sliding speedily across a deceivingly slippery surface. He barely stops his eye from being impaled by one of the many shards of ice and crystals that stick sideways out of a stalagmite; a beautiful-but-deadly design finding itself common in this place.

"Ice…" Braum lets out a sigh of relief.

"Of course it is…"

Unlike the user-friendly grip of its enchanted counterpart, the ground is coated with a slippery layer of natural ice that is so embedded with the ground, it is not apparent to the eye at first sight. The mercenary-knight slowly pushes himself away from the spine-ridden rock formation, gliding to the point between the deathtrap and his first step.

"You are not from Freljord, so you do not have proper boots!" Braum steps onto the frozen ground, no signs of slip or slide. "Come! Braum will carry you on his back."

"Pass."

The half-blood carefully gains some grounding, attempting to use the lack of surface tension to his advantage. Like a real newbie at ice skating, Ephrial attempts to skid forward, one careful step at a time as each movement he makes threatens his balance.

"That's the way!" a beefy, yet cheery, laugh encourages. "Like a newborn ram taking his first steps!"

A cheeky poro follows Ephrial's resolute example, plopping onto the frigid floor. With an innocent purring, the harmless creature immediately slips from all-fours to its belly, sliding clear across the ground as he spins. The fluffy ball of happiness bumps into a small ice formation, causing it to snap off like a twig. At first, the simple accident seems innocuous, with no repercussion. A breath later, and a crack begins to trail upwards, in the direction of dozens of sharp icicles dangling above. The fissure causes them to shake loose with the sudden disruption.

The snowball-like creature looks skyward and panics, jumping to its feet, and desperately attempts to run out of the way. Its hooves slip across the ice, making the poro run in place with only the slightest of forward momentum.

"My shield is here!" the giant man leaps into action, covering his furry friend from becoming skewered.

Frightened shivering ceases, and the miniature creature looks up at Braum with big, grateful eyes. The cheery mustache responds with a thumb up from beneath the shade of his massive cover. Before relief can fully settle in, the native creature's attention is yanked by another source, causing him to enter another fit of terror. A gelid blast of hail strikes Braum with a clear shot, sending him sliding into a wall with a heavy thud. Like a frigid coo, warm with charisma, yet with a nature as unmistakably cold as ice, a voice calls out.

 **"** **You should not have come here…mortals."**

A second flurry of wind and ice whips through the air, storming towards Ephrial. He dives out of the way, but with the slick ground sabotaging his escape. The bitter attack clips his shoulder, coating part of his armor in a thick layer of frost. Skidding across the icy ground, the mercenary-knight brandishes his blade, and plunges it downward in order to bring himself to a halt. The ice melts in the wake of the blaze, and cerulean eyes look up at the foe as it reveals itself from around a giant pillar, formed by a married stalagmite and stalactite.

The monster bears a striking resemblance to the strange creatures on the surface, having only one eye and two horns like weapons of ice. However, this creature stands bipedal, hooves for feet and almost human-like hands. It hunches over with a top-heavy frame, and dark ice encasing its body like plates of armor. Without any sign of a mouth, the speculation of it possessing some form of telepathy hangs in the air like the chilly voice of this new enemy.

 **"** **Give in to the cold…"**

Another flurry sweeps through the air, like a sudden blizzard. Ice and snow pelt the swordsman as he crouches behind his blade, using the heat as a protective barrier. The harsh wind comes to a sudden stop, and Ephrial lowers his arm from his face to see a real shield standing tall in before him.

No time to hesitate. With a disadvantage in grounding, and a foe of unknown capabilities, he decides to take action. Using the ardent blade to thrust himself to the side, he skids across the frozen ground, and launches a streak of fire towards his opponent from a flank.

 **"** **Useless!"** a waft of a claw wipes the flames away with a wave of wintery magic.

Keeping its arm extended, a mystic force calls forth a ball of true ice to form in front of the palm of the monster's hand. By sight and touch, it is definitely a solid, but the shape is as indefinite and free-flowing as water. The oddity pulses erratically, like it's bursting with a life of its own, unable to decide what form to assume. Responding to the creature's intent, it extends itself, and takes the shape of an elongated hammer.

The mystic weapon crashes down on Ephrial's position. A quick mercenary-knight narrowly leaps out of the way, only to slide towards the lethal shards sticking out of the wall behind him. Using his sword to safely extend his reach through the spikes, he presses it against the wall to prevent himself from slamming into a messy demise. Vibrations from the force of the conflict cause some of the icicles overhead to loosen and succumb to gravity. Unable to draw his sword back in time, he resorts to swiping them away with the back of his left hand. The parry is successful at diverting the lethality of the falling stakes of ice, but his arm takes a gash in the process. Drops of blood fall to the frozen ground, giving very small puffs of steam before the cold swallows the heat. With so many hazards present, Ephrial's every move hosts more risk than yield.

Braum rams his shield toward the unexpected foe, yet his might induces no effect. The monster merely raises his hand to stop the attack in an effortless gesture. Boots meant for treading the ice begin sliding backwards, as the unavailing pressure turns against the Freljordian. With a struggle, the shield is slowly pulled down, out of the line of sight, and the two make eye-contact.

 **"** **You are but flesh and bone… Easily broken,"** the eerie voice growls.

The shapeshifting orb of ice magic thrusts into the shield, exploding into the form of a large spear. It continues to extend outward, pushing Braum away with it, and sends him smashing into a mineral-ridden stalagmite. The assault continues as the weapon rises, changing into an overly-large sword, and descends onto its target. Again, and again, the blade meets the shield, each blow further imprinting the Freljordian's body into the ground.

"Now's my chance," a steady voice of controlled fervor whispers, his breath visible in the bitter air.

He pushes himself forward, sliding across the frozen ground, toward the mysterious enemy. A quick slash at its leg grasps its attention, and the mercenary-knight uses his blade to make a sharp turn and abrupt stop, avoiding the immediate retaliation of a sword turning into a trident. Fire and ice collide, with swirls of snow and magic in the midst. The shapeshifting weapon continues to alter forms, assuming the shape of various weapons between each strike—swords, axes, scythes, and all manners of physical armaments, each with a creative spin on the conventional designs.

A ram's visage shoots forth from Braum's shield, connecting with the beast's back. The momentary flinch from the blindsided attack gives Ephrial an opening to cut at the creature's mid-section. Bright flames meet with Dark Ice, creating a standstill of force. A breathless voice lets out a taunting laughter.

 **"** **Dark Ice does not melt, foolish mortal."**

Defiance against oppressive power burns, unwavering. "Great. I guess I'll pick up a souvenir after I'm done with you."

With a roar, the bestial opponent calls forth a frigid wind to push the fiery challenger away. In response, howls carry through the air from the direction Ephrial and Braum had come. Sounds of claws scratching against ice, and huffs of animalistic growling, begin to echo through the corridor. Within moments, a handful of those twisted creatures from the surface pour in to the cavern.

"Invited a few friends along, huh?" a spirited swordsman winds up his wrist with a quick flourish of his blade. "Good. I wouldn't feel right fighting if I wasn't on the outnumbered side."

A blazing sword parries the next attack, using the opening to slide between the legs of the Dark Ice beast. Fiendish claws caught off-guard, a direct thrust into a corrupted snow leopard's heart stays its razors from tearing into him. Braum chimes in to slam his shield into a pair of raging one-eyed moose, each much larger than himself.

 **"** **Let the frost take you…"**

Swirling winds start churning up again, this time with far more ferocity. The particles of snow and frost begin colliding with each other, fusing into airborne ice shards. As the seconds pass, they begin gathering mass to become increasingly more threatening. A mighty shield provides cover from rear, protecting them from the shredding gust while Ephrial takes the front, swinging wildly through the onslaught of claws, tusks, and antlers.

"Ephrial! You must stop ice storm before we freeze like statue!" a heavy build-up of frost and ice creeps on Braum's shield.

The air whistles loudly with the howling wind and speeding projectiles tossing around like a giant blender. With the shield providing only a small gauge of space safe from being torn to shreds, Ephrial plows through one last corrupted predator in a dash to the source of the storm. An extremely muscular man presses against the wind and three beasts clawing at his shield, holding his ground with his legendary strength.

Speedy steps approach the powerful foe, sword ready, and pelagic eyes carefully watching for the next form of the extremely pliable weapon. Down it comes, swinging fast without taking a shape just yet, waiting to the last moment to change form and catch him off-guard…a highly experienced tactic. Ephrial shifts his body, dipping low instead of countering an eruption of multiple spearheads, bursting forth like snakes lunging for the kill. A fiery blast directed at the feet of the hulking beast creates a small pool of water. The chill of the air, however, causes it to freeze almost as fast as it had started to melt. Not the original intention, but it'll do.

Instead of sticking around, Ephrial uses the storm to his advantage, running in a wide circle, and going along with the stream of fierce wind. As he enters the hail of razors, he begins slashing a path in front of himself, ignoring the bites and stings from the needles chasing him from behind. To make the turns around the wide circle, the mercenary-knight plants his blade into the ground periodically, keeping his balance along the slippery surface. Trails of melted and flash-frozen ice scar the floor as Ephrial skates a dance of fire and ice on a frozen field of death. A quick turn, and there's his lift—a snow pile of persistent beasts contesting a shield almost completely buried in snow. One boot hops off the back of a lion-esque creature, and the other bounds off of Braum's ancient door-shield.

Blade charged with fervor, Ephrial crashes down on the stalwart enemy of corrupted magic. A heavy impact, empowered by the speed gained from the flow of wind, collides with the enemy's armor before its weapon can take a defensive form. The force of the strike knocks the snow and frost build-up on Ephrial's armor that was acquired during his sprint. To the surprise of the one-eyed foe, his foot, locked in place by the temporarily-thawed pool of water, refuses to budge in a brace to absorb the attack. Ephrial's plan of action breaks the stance and the concentration of his target, sending it stumbling back as it drags a portion of the ground with that first step.

The blizzarding force dies off, and with the release of the wind resistance, Braum bashes his fist against his own shield, sending the beasts flying back, and breaking the ice off of his frozen utility. Before they can get back on their respective paws and hooves, the Heart of the Freljord enacts a merciful blow with the heft of his keepsake.

"Sorry friends. Perhaps we shall meet again."

Flames and frost collide as Ephrial searches for a weakness. The Dark Ice that encases the frozen foe like armor holds true, with the exception of a small set of cracks that spider along its chestplate. He needs an effective crushing blow to break through that frigid barrier and perform a finishing strike. Fortunately, such a source is readily available.

"Hey, Braum. Ever play basketball?"

"Eh…basket…ball…? We do not have this in the Freljord," confusion on his face as he charges toward the fray.

"Follow my lead."

A quick mind at work, Ephrial sends a bolt of fire toward the ceiling, shaking loose the icicles above his enemy to rain down in a cold, suppressive barrage. Using the quick distraction, the mercenary-knight clears the way for the Freljordian hulk to slam straight into their enemy. The force pushes the enigmatic opponent a few meters back, the recoil buying them time to follow up again. Deft boots hop onto the face of a frozen shield, and Braum launches Ephrial into the air. Like a bouncer at a Noxian bar, the muscleman hurls his shield up and outward, directly in the half-blood's airborne path.

With a mighty swing driven by a set mind, the fiery blade slashes into the shield, sending it crashing into the icy enemy like a meteor. The force is enough to cause the protective artifact to bounce off its mark, allowing Braum to capitalize on the assault. Using only one hand, he catches his shield, and bashes it into the ground in front of himself, sending an eruption of ice into the monstrous enigma. The magical blast plows the beast into the wall, pinning it in place. A cave-shaking force causes the remaining icicles above to cascade down on all sides.

A hot glow begins shattering through the frigid trail left behind by Braum's attack, tracing it straight through the protruding formations. The sound of breaking ice echoes throughout the cave like an avalanche, the powder of small particles creating a thick cloud of glittering haze. A mixture of breaking frost and steam carves through, like a torch through a foggy night, as the ardent blaze rushes to its target. Immense force disperses the shrouding mist on impact, revealing a red and gold blade sticking in the middle of a defending buckler of Dark Ice.

The monster's gelid, shapeshifting material has formed around the blade, just in time to stop it from reaching the armor that covers the heart of the unnamed foe. Ephrial refuses to give in, pushing it through, and forcing the sharp tip against the plates of corrupted magic. The passion-infused flames flare up with no intention of accepting anything less than a devastating strike.

 **"** **Impudent human! Dark…Ice… Does. Not. Melt!"** the mouthless creature condemns the blade, holding fast to his round shield.

"Who said anything about melting?" a steel voice responds, wedging the tip of the blade through the cracked chestplate of dark blue, just deep enough to hold itself in place for the briefest of moments.

 **"** **Ungrateful mortals! Traitors and scourges of the hands that fed you! The Ice Witch herself encased me in her power! This armor…will…not—!"**

Ephrial releases his blade, taking a minor step backwards. In half-a-heartbeat, he performs a short front flip in the air, bringing his heel crashing down onto the hilt of his locked blade. The transition is fluid in execution, with skillful speed performing a seamless improvisation.

 ** _"_** ** _Break!"_** the unassailable will of fire completes his enemy's declaration with a challenging breath.

The tension snaps under the sudden force, utterly shattering the hard shell of the weakened foe in an explosive burst. A gilded sword demolishes the remaining integrity of a protective breastplate, sundering a transparent helmet as the laws of physics send it skyward. Shards of dark ice spew in all directions, showering the scene of a critical blow. Ephrial's blade spirals back down into his unrelenting grip. With continued fervor, he unleashes a powerful thrust into the vulnerable eye of Lissandra's follower. An ugly scream of pain and grimace rings out, reverberating in the long halls of the ancient palace.

 **"** **GRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWL!"**

The Blazing Swordsman pierces the icy behemoth down to the very crossguard of his blade. Fierce flames perform damage on an internal level, putting the creature's claim about Dark Ice's integrity against temperature to the test.

 **"** **It does not matter what you do to me…!"** he bellows, impaled on the frozen wall by the unbreakable blade. **"Lissandra has her army! The war is already won! All that remains is the time it takes to destroy every last one of you humans!"**

"I guess you won't be around to see it," Ephrial quips after blinding the beast, that idiosyncratic balance of calm and fervor in his voice.

Permafrost claws leaden, sapped of any remaining vigor. **"It's already over… The Watchers…** ** _We_** **have returned!"**

With a singular grip, Ephrial forcefully twists his blade a ninety-degree angle, much to the Watcher's agony. "As far as I'm concerned, that is irrelevant to me at the moment. All I know for certain right now is that you're in my way," a loud crack signifying the detriment being inflicted by rotating the flaming edge perpendicularly to the ground. He slowly adds his left hand to his ambidextrous hold; an unyielding spirit burning behind glacial eyes.

Images of the Noxian runic blade, smoldering in the aftermath of its departed wielder, flash before Ephrial's eyes. Thoughts of what was, what could have been, and what can still be flood his mind. His decision—his _promise_ pours into his blade like a river feeding into a relentless inferno of earnest avidity.

"Anyone that stands in my way, regardless of who or _what_ they are, have but one fate!"

The Blazing Swordsman draws his weapon from his foe's stout head, swinging it down and outward to the side, through the Watcher's breaking body. A cascade of bluish blood, ice shards, and a trace of molten rock from the pierced wall explode behind him as he turns his back on the primeval foe. Bringing his blade with him in a wide sweep of conflagration, he seals the ardent flames with a quick, poised twirl into the scarlet sheath. The immortal being is no more, and without another thought, Ephrial proceeds onward, where the palace of True Ice continues.

 **`*~\\-~vVv~-/~*`**

Time passes in silence, with the only sounds being that of their footsteps echoing in the frozen palace. Braum strokes his mustache in contemplation after witnessing a close-up demonstration of Noxian brutality dealt by a tempered soul. The occasional complete and utter decimation of his foes, even displayed in some of his few League matches, is part of why many doubt the mercenary-knight stands different from the rest of Noxus. While his assaults may appear reckless to onlookers, those that have been in the middle of his fray know well the swordsman's measured and surgically precise mastery in combat. Closer still, difficult to see amidst fervid flames, a protective nature guides his motions with his allies in mind, allowing the half-blood to unleash his raw strength without reserve nor liability. However, a fiercely dancing blade in the hands of someone born in Noxus is sometimes the only thing people ever see, despite the valiant tales that circulate his name.

The gilded sword that has never spilt any innocent blood weighs a burden worth many generations of battle and slaughter, merely due to the birthplace of the one who brandishes it. It is the same blood that courses in his veins that destroyed homes, fell nations, and slew families. A stigma, etched in history of a nation that breeds war, looms over him, dwarfing any note of his Ionian half.

A man who sees the heart before anything else in a person senses the struggle within the fiery adventurer. Braum finally speaks, albeit timidly, after spectating Ephrial's intimidating ruthlessness towards his enemies.

"So…this friend of yours… They are very important to you, no?"

The Freljordian introduces an intriguing track of thought to the half-blood. He has not stopped to ponder any meaning Riven has to him on that of a personal level. Everything from his decision to join the League, to where he currently stands now, has been linked to his sister in one form or another—the justice he demands for Cerina. His resolve to aid the Exile in her redemption is more of an interest on her own behalf, being a firm believer in honor, equity, and second chances. Even the smallest of deeds in his travels were simply to do good wherever it can be done, keeping the heart of his mother's lessons alive, expecting nothing in return. All of it has been for the sakes outside of his own. As far as Ephrial's thoughts of Riven go, he holds an admiration for her honesty and conviction. The daily skirmishes and numerous enemies that threaten his life have not given him time to think of anything beyond his self-imposed mission.

"…Something like that."

"Your blade…she responds to your heart. It roars, like dragon!" his voice gives a tone of directing his attention.

Stopping, the half-blood turns his shoulder to see a large gash in the face of Braum's shield, where he had previously slashed it to send it soaring into the icy menace. The indestructible sword has met the unbreakable shield, and the blade has left its mark as the victor. Perhaps this is what that mysterious visitor had meant when the mercenary-knight had encountered him, shortly after his escape from Noxus. An unlimited potential locked away in an extremely thin line, balancing between heated fervor and a cool, collected mind.

"Apologies about your shield," he looks up at the Freljordian giant.

"Heheheheh!" that lighthearted laughter again. "Do not be sorry, my friend! The heart is the strongest muscle. You wield yours as strongest weapon!"

A massive hand pats him on the back with unintentionally brutal force. Ephrial reels forward with the impact, and a small hint of the acidic taste of blood appears in his mouth.

"Come, my fiery friend! More adventure awaits, just beyond our eyes!"

The two proceed forward, into a dark, icy abyss. Unlike the previous hallway, the luminescence has fled. Or rather…it has been extinguished. Ice, heavily saturated in a dark blue, coats the walls and flooring. Corruption has taken hold of the entire section, quelling what lively light may have inhabited it many years ago. The frigid, unwelcoming ambience of Dark Ice now surrounds them in a bitter embrace of an ancient enemy, and a present danger. Ephrial unsheathes his blade, lighting the way with the fire of his undaunting spirit. Their steps echo in the darkness, and an eerie chill coming from ahead whispers around them, as if beaconing them to draw closer. Silent as they go, they share the unspoken understanding of a feeling that they are being spied upon by watchful eyes.

Ephrial's knowledge of the history surrounding the Freljord is limited, being far more concerned with his endeavors in Valoran. He has not been a participant of the League for nearly as long as the others, thus, many of remarks by Greyor, the ghostly shopkeeper of the Howling Abyss, escapes his understanding. The day has brought them to his acknowledgement, however. While he possesses no current intentions to become deeply involved in the affairs of the Winter-locked region, he is forced to realize the awakened peril of the North.

The Watchers have returned.


	20. Chapter 20: Icebreaker

**-  
Chapter 20**

 ** _Icebreaker_**

"Ready? One…two…three!"

Like a battering ram, Ephrial and Braum smash the giant shield into the hilt of the gilded sword. With the blade sticking in the small space between two extremely large doors, acting like a lever, the hammering force pries the entrance open. The thick layer of Dark Ice cracks, echoing loudly through the abysmal hallway of frozen ruin. A gust of wind surges into the now unsealed room, as if filling a void long left untouched, inaccessible by even the air itself. Taking the sword back into his grip, the mercenary-knight heaves into the resistance of a frozen barrier in an attempt to widen the door's narrow opening. The burly man next to him shares his strength, pulling the door with his hands along the same direction.

Stymied efforts gradually prevail as the encasing ice fractures and submits to their combined strength, slowly grinding along the ground as it peels a layer of frost off of the floor. With an opening wide enough for them to both fit through, they squeeze past the broad doors as towering as the room itself. The entire wing of the building becomes a steeping angle, making a simple walk more of a climb, but providing a welcoming hint at getting closer to the surface as they cross one more gelid barrier.

Through another unified effort, engraved doors surrender the path ahead. Icy corruption covers the entire room, encasing two large staircases at the far end, and the large sum of bookshelves that press against the walls on all sides. Everything looks as if it was all paused in the middle a devastating confrontation. Above, one giant chandelier, surrounded by three smaller survivors out of four, illuminate the room like frozen lightbulbs. Centered in the large chamber is a statue of a gargantuan, long-extinct. A mammoth mightily poses with its forelegs off the ground and its trunk in the air, as if trumpeting in majestic fury. Chains thicker than Braum's shield, bearing icicles on each link, signify the massive strength of the ancient behemoth. Even the colossal tusks have tusks of their own, poised in sharp curves to maim and brutalize. It stands like a victorious centerpiece to the ornate room of lost books and artifacts.

From the wall above, between the stairways, a large mural stares down at them. It's a portrait of someone clearly prestigious and noble, dressed in luxurious attire and capped off with a regal cloak. A thick layer of scintillating frost covers her face, revealing no further distinguishable features other than the long, flowing hair of snowy white that drapes over her shoulder.

"This is…"

"Avarosa's throne?" Ephrial completes the speculative thought.

Even without much knowledge of the Freljord, it's rare to meet someone that is not familiar with Avarosa. Her name travels on with the legacy of the Avarosian tribe named after her, now carried on by Ashe through the very same bow. The Watchers themselves have been reduced to fairy tale, however, and viewed as a fictional telling of Avarosa's story. Yet, in a world where new creatures are discovered almost every month, those who follow the League at all know that nothing is ever simply _just_ a story.

The half-blooded mercenary-knight spots a small pile of books on the floor, lying just outside a frigid slab of Dark Ice that preserves the shelves behind it. With slanting footsteps, he walks over and picks it up, keeping the pages open. Stiff paper and a brittle cover have kept together surprisingly well, maintaining a readable form with appropriately delicate handling. Years of isolation in an air-tight chamber of ice have conserved the literature like meat in an ice locker.

"The Freljord…it is like iceberg. So much on top, yet…so much more under the surface. I bet this one has many stories to tell, eh?" the shield-bearing native, looking at the magnificent creature towering before him.

"Not fun stories, by the looks of it. Apparently, those creatures found themselves commonplace in the war against these 'Watchers'. Seems they were used on both sides, creating for some extreme casualties," Ephrial skims through the text, hoping for some mention of his objective.

"It is sad when even the gentlest of our friends are used to fight each other," he gives a solemn pat to the poro at his heel.

"They can't be all that gentle if they are capable of killing droves of people at a time. The rules of nature can be…misleading. Perhaps this might not go for the Freljord, but in my experience in the past, if it's cute and fluffy…it's probably deadly," eyeing the poro out of the corner of his vision.

"Ephrial is scared of poros?" Braum raises an eyebrow.

"Not scared. Just…cautious. We've seen how big they can get when well-fed. They would practically get on the brink of bursting. What would poros feed on when poro snax just won't do anymore? I wouldn't be surprised if there was a giant one somewhere, ruling over its smaller brethren. A 'king of the poros' of some fashion."

"Hehehehaha! You have quite the imagination, friend!"

As the two are talking, the innocently curious poro begins sniffing the statue. It circles around, as if hoping to pick up a trail of food. The hungry creature comes to a patch of shards in the shape of an explosion caught in mid-impact, where Dark Ice crashed into True ice, and the two bodies froze in place together, long ago. Beady eyes look up to see a distorted reflection of itself in each of the crystalline shapes, startling the ball of fluff. With instincts kicking in, feeling frightened and outnumbered, the snowball darts in the opposite direction. Hasty hooves find themselves running straight into a lamp-like pedestal, unable to change direction in time. The little horns slam into the stand, knocking the silver, decorative piece over.

With a loud crack, the deafening sound echoes around the room, dragging out as the very soundwaves are trapped within the walls. The champions' attention snaps toward the origin of the reverberation, seeing a puffball shake off the dizziness and return their gaze with a harmless, guiltless look, sticking its disproportionally-large tongue out.

The accident is not without a discovery, however. A grinding sound of something smooth rolling over a rough surface grasps their awareness, bringing their eyes to a spherical object. Ephrial is instantly struck with suspicion, drawing closer to it. As he approaches the simple object, he sees a fluctuation of light within the orb. He picks it up, bringing the relic closer to a scrutinizing, glacial gaze.

Upon inspection, he sees more than just a ball of True Ice with a thin band of gold forming an incomplete spiral around it. The inside is as alive as the first hallway of the underground palace, light moving and swirling inside as if it had taken a liquid state. Only this possesses more colors of the spectrum, taking more of a controlled form. The warm, gentle array of hues brings a realization to mind—it is the Northern Lights in a perfectly round container, like a spin on the concept of a ship in a bottle. According to Zilean, it has no special function, but it is clearly a sight to behold. It is no wonder why Ashe has spent a great deal of time and resources to locate such a marveling piece of her history.

"This is…"

"You found it? Way to go, Ephrial!" Braum lets out another cheery laughter. "You are real Freljordian treasure hunter now!"

The orb, despite being made of True ice, feels tepid instead of cold, emitting a subtle warmth. Ephrial's grip on it hardens slightly, feeling the heft of the object as the weight of a responsibility. Her fate is quite literally in his hands now.

A loud snap from above interrupts the heavy contemplation. The pair look up to see a crack in the colossal statue become a large fissure, running down the back of the ancient creature. The sundering trail of the ice ceases for a moment of silence, aside from the cold echoes that follow; a ticking pace like a clock, building anticipation.

The sculpture erupts with the force of a storm, knocking the adventurers off of their feet, scattering them aside in the wake of the shockwave. A terrifying sound thunders, and the weight of the statue's airborne half hits the ground, creating a miniature earthquake inside the room. With heavily-invoked alarm, the two men look up from the ground to see that the mythical beast is no mere carving.

As if aware of their presence, the powerful figure slowly turns around. A living, breathing machine of destruction gives a cold stare with only one eye, glowing red with murderous intent. The monster is mostly flesh, but the front legs, up to the shoulders, form into Dark Ice. Slowly materializing out of the dry air, as if forcefully ripping moisture from the solid state of the frozen surroundings, two pairs of additional limbs form at its side. Unlike the elephantine appendages, these additional arms have four-fingered claws, similar to that of the previous threat. The bizarre display can only be described as a cyclops mammoth that is part ice—an abomination born of corrupted magic.

"Another victim of the Watchers?" Braum arches his head backwards at the altitude of the mountainous creature.

"Nothing in the Freljord is _just_ ice, is it?"

A sound once lost to time trumpets at them with a tumultuous roar, and the champions of the League find themselves in an overwhelming battle once again. The scorching sword and earthshattering shield raise in vigilance.

Primal instinct drives the beast forward at them, tusks poised down for obliteration. The pair of fighters dive out of the way in opposite directions, splitting the attention of the archaic behemoth. Lively flames brimming with light and heat call strongly the focus of the corrupt puppet of the Watchers. Clumsy, destructive feet stampede towards him, destroying one of the staircases as it turns toward Ephrial. Relentless pursuit of blind rage chases the swordsman along the side of the room, its left tusks scraping through the bookcases and walls, wreaking havoc on the sleeping ruins. The slant of the room works in the mercenary's favor, yet only in the short run as it allows the beast to gain more speed and momentum itself.

"Ephrial!" the Freljordian beacons him. "Like basketball!"

Braum primes his shield to launch Ephrial airborne like he did before, clearly misunderstanding the specific part of their previous assault's relevance to the sport. The mercenary springboards off the near-unbreakable shield, bounding high with a combined strength to one of the smaller chandeliers above. The mustached strongman leaps sideways; a near-miss with the raging mammal.

Discerning eyes scan the room, looking for some sort of advantage or environmental hazard to use against the corrupted beast. Below him, the two giants play the dangerous roles of matador and bull. Before Ephrial can put together an idea, the cyclops smashes head-first into a wall, causing the area to quake, and shake loose the swordsman's perch.

The frozen chandelier descends rapidly, and the nimble mercenary leaps off just before it crashes into the ground behind him. A hard landing on the smooth floor of magical ice causes him to lose his grip on the Eye of Avarosa. With a taunting pace, the orb slowly rolls toward the beast as it recovers to its gelid feet, shaking the rubble off of its head before turning back toward the fiery beacon.

Ephrial's gaze shifts from the mammoth back to his objective, knowing that if it is destroyed, so are his endeavors. That relic must be… _she_ must be saved—at any cost.

Absent of hesitation, Ephrial springs to his feet and dashes towards the dusky face of death itself. In a race of man versus beast, the figures rush forward, icicles falling around them with every quaking step of the tremendous monster. The mercenary-knight scoops up the Eye with his free hand, immediately jumping up and over an ivory tool of destruction. A narrow escape becomes even slimmer, veering his body toward the side as giant limbs of ice sweep in for an attempt at fatal blow. In a split second of confusion, Ephrial finds himself speeding across the ice without moving his legs, after landing on a moving platform. With an extremely well-timed throw, Braum had thrown his shield across the floor, allowing the swordsman to transverse the terrain without harm as the ice-shattering weight of the mammoth tramples past.

"Nice throw," Ephrial acknowledges, looking over his shoulder.

The bestial creature of ancient times switches targets, setting its enraged eye on the unarmed Freljordian in front of him.

Maintaining his hard-tempered calmness, Ephrial snowboards to a grinding halt, stopping himself and the shield with one foot. Turning an innovative idea into another, he sets a course for a return. Anything thrown at him, observed, or survived can only make him stronger. Better. More clever. Such has always been his trial since childhood. No room for hesitation, nor for weakness. Fight harder, fight smarter, and never give up. It was the only way to ever survive Noxus…the only way to be strong enough for two.

A quick glance at the orb, glowing balmy in his hands, and a familiar feeling washes over him. In this moment, he must be strong enough to fight for another who cannot fight for her own life here.

"My turn!" the passionate blade flares, raising up high, then sweeps low like a hockey stick.

The mighty swing sends the massive shield sliding back towards its owner—a fiery propulsion with an icy projectile. With gauged intent, the protective armament catches the footstep of the stampeding mammoth, causing it to slip and lose balance. The shield is sent flying forward with the stumbling behemoth. Like a small avalanche, the beast crashes to the floor, grinding forward along with the momentum.

Braum leaps into the air to catch his shield, turning into a weapon again as he primes it for a heavy smash. As the Watchers' mammoth slides toward him, he slams his shield down on the base of one of its tusks. The powerful strike causes the ivory to shatter, severing the enormous tooth from the body.

A loud cry tears the air, causing the littering rubble to visibly vibrate off of the ground. Bellowing and trumpeting, the ancient creature rises in pain before tensing its body to hold itself still. Like before, a mist of ice begins materializing, taking the form of the separated tusk. With an angry glare, it stares at Braum with intensity.

A victorious grin turns sour, and the Freljordian tucks himself behind his shield for cover.

"This thing can reform itself?" Ephrial takes a step forward, pocketing the orb and rethinking a strategy.

A frosty trunk lifts into the air, preparing to strike downward with the force of well-over forty-thousand muscles of mythic might. With time being a swiftly dissolving resource, the mercenary-knight reaches for the creature's attention with a piercing sound. Using the orb's silver-plated pedestal as tuning fork, he picks it up and bangs it against his blade, creating an even higher pitch than the one that had awoken the beast.

The brutal trunk loses its form as another roar of pain echoes out. Parts of its body begin to turn to ice, forming patches in random places that were once flesh and fur. A vengeful eye shoots in Ephrial's direction, and turns to charge him without regard to its surroundings. Instead of running, the half-blood holds his ground, waiting with a calculating mind.

"Didn't like that, huh? I guess you're not going to like this, either…"

He counts in his mind, preparing for the perfect timing. Three…two…one...! A fiery streak soars skyward, shattering the chain that holds a massive, articulately-crafted chandelier up. With the sound of a raging waterfall, numerous shards of decorative ice cascades onto the berserk creature. The enormous figure disappears into a thick cloud of frigid mist, swarming the scene like a violent blizzard.

A few moments of anxious breaths and silence slip by, and the question on the warriors' minds is answered by a furious bellowing. Rising up from the wreckage of dark and light ice, primeval wrath explodes free, trunk exalted in the air as a testament to its immense size and power.

Braum leaps towards Ephrial, covering him from a maiming tusk with his shield, pushing his raw strength to the limit. The three combatants find themselves in a dance of turn-based attacks. As the mammoth opens an onslaught of rapid thrashing, forcing its prey back with every strike, the Heart of the Freljord and mercenary-knight alternate between each other.

With the trunk and tusks swiping at them, Braum takes the front, breaking the impacts with his shield. As the cyclops claws at them with its almost-humanoid hands, trying to tear the barrier from the Freljordian's grip, Ephrial swaps places. The seething blade strikes the icy appendages down with blazing alloy, before switching roles again as the creature buys time for them to reform.

The teamwork-based strategy holds an effective defense, but that is all it is—a defensive set of maneuvers. Each strike is another step of ground lost, nearing them to the edge of the room with their backs nearly pressed against the wall. Without a convenient Flash spell, or an aiding set of allies to get them out of their cornered position, the two resort to the only method left in their options. They turn to the offensive.

Another ear-splitting song on the thin pedestal, and the ancient creature flinches, giving them a much-needed opening to counter. Braum wastes no time running up the trunk to slam his shield flat into the face of his enemy. Ephrial deftly leaps over his shoulder, planting his blade into the giant skull.

Wincing and writhing in pain, the mammoth reels upward, throwing Braum aside. The swordsman holds on tightly, swinging back and forth like a bull rider, only far more fiercely. With an audible crack, the mercenary-knight flings to the other side of the room. He speedily slides across frost and icy rubble, roughly skidding through trampled flooring.

Bruised and battered, he lifts his head up, supporting part of his weight on his arm as he lies prone. A glowing orb bounces forward, rolling between him and his ancient foe, just like before. The moment of déjà vu causes heavy thoughts to descend upon Ephrial's mind.

 _"_ _Again? Does history really need to repeat itself? Always so blatant…always so soon…? For every action, there is a reaction… Every time I try to fight for someone…someone else, or some_ _ **thing**_ _, always stands in the way, just to take them from me. My mother…father...my sister… Even my fellow 'mercenary-knights', and Zelos, too… And now…this time…"_

Teeth clench in a heated resolve. He rises to his feet, without moving his vision away from the red stare, preparing to charge at him once more. A burning marine gaze pierces back, and the fervorous flames begin to stir into a concentrated inferno, almost fully concealing the blade from sight. His voice brims with the determination his weapon reflects.

"No. Not this time…!"

The beast, enraged by a deep gash in its forehead, begins a full-force stampede, rushing toward the swordsman with all of its might and momentum. Ephrial merely walks forward, his weariness overtaken by the extreme zeal inside of him.

"I don't care what form you assume. I don't care how big you get. It doesn't matter how many parts you regenerate."

Step by step, he strides forward, blood running down his arm and the side of his face. The trembling of the ground grows closer, burgeoning stronger with each pace.

"I won't run. I won't hide. I won't stop."

A ferocious roar trumpets from ahead, tusks poising themselves.

"Everything you've taken from me… **I'll take back, one way or another!"**

He tosses the slim, decorative stand in front of himself, sending it soaring in a fiery flash. The metal-on-metal collision of his sword against the pedestal propels the high-pitched frequency, sending it cutting through the air ahead. Like a shrill spear, it plunges into the creature's head wound, directly spreading the reverberations throughout its entire body. The gargantuan monster's momentum begins slowing as patches of ice grow swiftly around its frame. A single tone of an ear-ringing note turns the rampaging trumpet into a silent statue once more. The solidifying colossus grinds to a frozen halt, just short of a relic more precious than its history, as it now holds a purpose for a valuable future.

Ephrial's slow pace breaks only to pick up the orb, then resumes to walk a straight path forward. His voice almost seems to have an echo all by itself, amidst the monotone ringing still bouncing along the walls.

 **"** **I can't change the past…not all of it. Not mine. Not anyone else's."**

His blade flashes elegantly and precisely all around himself, as his arm blurs with each strike. Wide slashes glint in nearly every direction, yet unaffecting the form of a simple, almost casual, walk; a solid display of the speed and form that has even kept up with mastered Wuju. Streaks of flame sear through the legs and body of the titan he walks under, yet not leaving even the slightest sign of fracture in the icy effigy.

 **"** **You have captured history for yourself… You can keep it. What I will seize is the future."**

Ephrial's words cut through the shrill pitch, and hang in the air.

 **"** **I'll make sure you remain buried in the past, never to repeat again. So long as I breathe, there will be only one word to describe you…"**

The Blazing swordsman walks out and past the shadow of the elephantine corruption, sheathing the searing flames of harmonized fervor. The sharp tone of the improvised decoration finally dies off, and a short silence betides over the room, as if time has stopped for a brief moment.

 **"** **Extinct."**

As the vapor of his breath in the frosty air fades, the monolithic cyclops of Dark Ice shatters into oblivion. Shards and lumps of frosty matter collapse into a maelstrom of powder and frozen debris. Just like that, the foe of ancient origin stands no longer, once again, lost to the pages of forgotten tomes and folklore.

Braum, in a mixture of alarm and astonishment, keeps a slight distance as he speaks.

"Are you…uh…okay…Ephrial?"

A pause before answering, as if cooling down. With the hint of a subtle echo in his voice gone, he replies stoically.

"I'm just…tired… Tired of a cursed fate."

"Your enemy is…fate?"

"I suppose that's one way of putting it."

"Fate can be…tricky thing," he approaches Ephrial in an attempt to understand. "It is not something that can be…cut."

"You're right…but whatever obstacle it puts it my way is a different story."

A slow, almost sarcastic clapping echoes from above. Looking at the balcony atop the demolished stairs, the two spot a figure peering down at them. Leaning against the rail is a female figure, shrouded in a concealing black garb. What little skin showing on her face is a distinct tint of blue, like flesh and ice melded together.

"Bravo. Bravo, indeed… This is most unexpected," a chilly voice calls out. "When I was sent to retrieve the legendary war-beast that lay dormant here, I did not expect visitors, much less for it to have fallen so easily to them. Stories really do embellish the truth over time."

 _"_ _Retrieve…?"_ Ephrial ponders her meaning, detecting the trace of hostile intent in her voice. "Sorry if we've broken a toy of yours."

A sinister chortle forms a grin beneath her hood. "That is quite alright, seeing as you have prepared a suitable replacement of value for my Queen."

The mercenary-knight feels the clandestine eyes above shift to the ancient relic in his hand. He pulls it behind himself and takes an assertive step forward, obstructing her view of the object.

"Sorry. I saw it first."

"Oh, I had no intention of merely asking you for it. It is ours by _right_. All articles of Freljord's history tie back to **us**. That artifact—nay, that _trophy_ , is coming home."

As if on cue, fate presents Ephrial with yet another obstacle—another cold grip attempting to pry hope from his very hands. With vehement resolve, pushing through the pain of a strenuous sequence of events, he faces the next turn of the repetitive cycle with a fiery stare.

"Come and get it."


	21. Chapter 21: Witch's Shadow

**-  
Chapter 21**

 ** _Witch's Shadow_**

Shards of blue, like daggers of ice, whistle over Ephrial's head. With his blade tucked by his side, he answers the attack with his own, launching a streak of flame toward the cloaked enemy. She dodges, her focus changing to the leaping man of muscle as he brings down a slab of stone on her. Deft feet, keen to the ice, weave evasively along the frozen floor with ease.

"My, you're an annoying one, aren't you?" with a wicked smile underneath the hood. "This is not a fight suited for you. You lack a stake in this; a certain sense of…conviction."

With that, imprisoning spikes of ice shoot upward around Braum, leaving him with little space to move.

A small pause in confusion, expecting something more. "I do not understand… That is…all?" The Freljordian man chuckles, priming his weapon, "Shield beats ice!"

She merely tilts her head to the side, resting her cheek on her fist in amusement. With a snap of her fingers, the roof over Braum bursts and collapses over him. Like an enormous, upside-down glacier, the massive weight of the ground and ice they are buried under falls down, with the majority of it still remaining hidden from the eye. Barring death from crushing him is his shield, as the Heart of the Freljord struggles to keep on his feet.

"We've all heard the legends of the mighty man strong enough to oppose an entire mountain. Let's see just how true they really are. I pray you do not disappoint me…" taunting him, and turning her glance to the obliterated mammoth she was holding high expectations of.

A fiery slash sweeps by her—a move slick as ice ducking out of the way.

"As for you… You've no place here, and certainly no business with _that_."

"Considering my profession, my 'business' is whatever I say it is," the defiance of a mercenary-knight.

"Quite. However, you are a far cry from home, young mortal… Something has brought you here. A purpose involving that which is not yours."

"I suppose that makes two of us."

A short, tittering laughter, "That's it… Let me see the fire that courses through the famous 'Blazing Swordsman'. I shall thoroughly enjoy watching the embers in your eyes fade as I rip out your still-beating heart."

The mysterious figure reveals her true weapon of choice. She takes a small rod of True Ice from underneath her dark robes, and with a small flick of her wrist, causes it to extend its shape outward. A winding form becomes a distinct, viciously bladed whip of mystic ice. Violently, she lashes the frigid air in front of her, sending a thunderous crack echoing within the walls.

Cerulean eyes narrow in focus, running through his analysis of the situation. Braum has been taken out of the fight, yet remains a factor in the form of a liability. Time and collateral damage must be taken into account, as the integrity of the entire room rests, quite literally, on his shoulders. The nameless enemy before him is yet another master of ice, having a commanding field advantage. Her weapon of choice is a difficult one to wield, but extremely effective at controlling a distance.

Pacing in casual intervals, the clandestine woman sends provoking strikes his way, aiming at taunting him rather than a genuine attempt on his life. He reluctantly steps back with each whip, watching her form carefully as he searches for an opening, or a tell-tale weakness to turn into his favor. It's clear to him that she is well-versed in combat, with the flashing style of an assassin. A killer that has gotten a little too cocky, yet perhaps for good reason…

He dashes forward, right as the sharp extension closes in for another clap in the air, rather than after. Seizing the minuscule opening a whip has on its return, he slashes outward as he advances. With deadly grace, she retracts her weapon like a ballerina, twirling along the ice, and causing her weapon to wrap around her like a ribbon. The icy blades deny the assault, and manages to punish Ephrial by clipping him as he passes.

Drips of blood trickle down his fingers as he holds his side, examining the damage. Thin scratches streak along the armor, and the uncovered portion of his midsection is bleeding with a clean cut, staining his shirt a dark crimson.

"Am I not going easy enough for you?" a jeering grin.

Perceptive thoughts at work, _"She's just toying with me… With the room set to collapse like a ticking bomb, she feels as though she has already won this fight; merely dragging it out for her entertainment."_

Ephrial takes his hand off of the injury and raises it, gazing at the warm vitality growing cold in the frozen atmosphere. The same blood that courses through his veins had once coursed through _hers_ , too… A stream of red, bound by ineluctable oppression to the point of an early demise.

The residual warmth on his fingers fades in the bitter air, and he clenches his hand tightly. Cerina may be gone, but he has never stopped fighting for her. Though she may no longer be able to see it, he still struggles to create a viable future in which she could have had a safe place to live. A normal life without fear of Noxian enmity or Demacian distrust. The aged cycle of war, started by their less-than-noble half, had made Ionia a prison to its own people for years, and concreted the scornful view of anyone from Noxus. Managing to eke out a small village all to their own half-blooded kind was all he could do for her—a regret of limitations holding back the dream of a girl who only wanted to see the world and help those with wounds of body and heart.

A sliver of light peeks out from the pouch on Ephrial's belt, reassuring him that it's not yet over. That dream of such a world lives on. Not an exact replica, but ending war and meaningless bloodshed is nothing short of helping those far beyond the walls of confinement. A former idol of war will become the very key to seeing that mission through. Just as he had fought for his sister, so, too, will he fight for Riven; an ironic twist of polar opposites. Right now, he has already failed…but yesterday hasn't happened yet.

Ephrial takes a stance, forming a new strategy. Ice and fire collide as he takes the defensive, blocking the frozen blades with the flat of his sword. Antagonizing strikes grow impatient, lashing out harder and harder on him.

"Is this all you have to offer? Pah…yet another disappointment. Let us just end this farce quickly!"

An angered whip winds up and hurls forward, slicing through the air like tethered knives. Each repeated assault begins tossing up frost, gradually forming into a set of frozen daggers, materializing and launching outward in the wake of the cynical weapon. Ephrial holds his ground, covering his vitals and holding firm against the onslaught of blades.

The very echoes of the thunderous cracking begin to cause the room to vibrate, causing the mountainous rock in Braum's grip to quake as it slips further. The Freljordian struggles to keep his composure straight as possible, finding himself slowly being pushed down by the incredible weight.

"So short are the lifespans of the uninitiated. Your time is up, mortal!" a fierce swing unleashes her strength on the concentrated point of her weapon's tip.

The Blazing Swordsman steps forward, slashing the winding blades with his own, allowing them to wrap and interlock. The shockwave of the force sends the loose frost on the ground to toss out and away from the epicenter. Flames of fervor burn brightly, consuming the glittering icy blades constricting it. Unwitting to her, the ardent blade has been empowered with each of her blows; her relentless, taunting strikes fueling Ephrial's desire to persevere.

"Wrong. It has just begun."

Using the raw Noxian strength he possesses, he yanks on the line like a fishing rod, sending his enemy flying toward him like a flailing catch of the day. With his sword already winding up from the pull, he readies for a devastating strike at his airborne target.

After a flash of surprise and confusion, the hooded woman clutches a hand upward, commanding the ice between them to form a wall. Ephrial doesn't hesitate to continue his course, slashing straight through the ice, an explosion of fire breaking the solid formation into countless, melting pieces. The mysterious figure bounces along the ground, away from the collision, and her whip skids along with her. Perturbed, but intact, she rises to her feet with a bruised ego and blizzarding rage.

Without a word, she grits her teeth in anger and begins to wind up her weapon, charging forward. Like a blender of frigid daggers, she thrusts it ahead like a tornado on a leash. As the tip spirals forward like a drill, Ephrial focuses in on its trajectory as it heads straight for his head. Using precision to counter precision, he strikes the blade, edge-to-edge, sending it directly back to its wielder.

As the leading blade travels, it takes the rest of its spiraling form with it, each winding round falling short of the mercenary-knight before being called back. Unflinching, oceanic eyes spot a further opening, and he leaps through the rotating hoops with his ardent blade poised.

Facing a double-counter attack, the woman hastily forms a frozen shamshir in her free hand, and parries away the whip. Barely managing to deter the fiery blade from piercing her frozen heart, she leaves herself open for attack again. A swift hand jerks her hood down over her entire visage, and a gilded hilt slams into her stomach, sending her slipping a few feet away as she manages to keep upright.

The momentum of a forced stop causes the loosened, concealing cowl to swing back, revealing her face. Two-toned bangs of white and blue streak elegantly down her forehead, leaving an opening for a tattoo of a crest that can only be assumed as a mark of loyalty. A vexed glare through violet eyes coldly glares at the half-blood.

"You clearly know of me. I think it's time you properly introduced yourself," Ephrial, demanding to know his enemy and her intentions.

Winded from the swift clash. "I need not introduce myself to a dog! Though, it matters not, seeing as you will not be leaving this place alive..." She straightens herself out, with dignity and pride in her voice, "I am Kyrie, personal agent to the rightful Queen of the Freljord. It is my duty to retrieve lost relics of our past…and rid of any nuisances that get in her way."

"Lissandra's puppet, huh? Your skin is as blue as hers, yet the ice under your command isn't corrupted. I suppose you're an Iceborn rather than a Watcher."

"Impertinent—…! You know nothing about me!" cracking her whip though the air in thorny temperment.

"Is that really a surprise? It must be hard to get any recognition when you stand in your queen's shadow, merely running errands like a courier."

Overflowing with enmity, she begins a torrent of furious strikes, taking poised, yet impatient strides. The two collide, blaze and frost clashing in skillful opposites. Brutal precision and deadly elegance face off, wild strikes scarring the already-demolished field.

Using rubble from the ground, Kyrie sweeps her whip along the floor to toss a chunk of debris at Ephrial. He blocks them with his sword, being forced to leave an opening for Lissandra's shadow to launch him backwards with a powerful kick. The mercenary's back slams into the bars of Braum's icy prison, causing a few to crack and crumble.

Reflexes urge him to duck down, avoiding the cruel weapon as it passes over his head, shattering a row of the glacial spikes. Braum falls to a knee, a wince of pain after being swiped by an icy blade.

"Ephrial… You must go! This ice…it is too heavy…even for Braum!" the struggling shield-bearer musters.

Picking himself up with determination. "I don't recall the mountain beating you in that story," referring to the tale Kyrie had referenced earlier.

"Stories are just—…"

"Just stories? There's a reason why they are held onto and passed down like a tradition. Not merely for entertainment, but a message—a lesson to aspire. Whatever that may be is subjective in many cases, but there are those that are more direct than others. Have you already forgotten what lessons made you who you are?" deflecting a vicious whip.

Braum's poro companion appears from cover and leaps onto his knee. With big, friendly eyes, it looks up at him, holding its tongue out as the balls of fur so often do.

With a careful laughter, as not to upset the weight on his shoulders, "You're right. It's as Mother always said…don't lose!" His back tightens and his wavering arms solidify.

"Hang in there."

The Blazing Swordsman sprints forward, up the slanted flooring and toward the icy menace before him. Precision strikes bounce off of each other, deterring severing slices and killing strokes. Pieces of the ceiling begin descending all around them as cracks begin to spider along the room, giving signs of a faltering integrity.

A solid kick knocks the swordsman backward, and a taunting smile appears on Kyrie's face. She raises a hand, as if digging through invisible ground in front of her. A block of ice forms behind Ephrial, and spikes form on its side, poised to maim and impale. She clenches her hand, and the block responds by grinding along the floor as it charges toward the mercenary.

Instead of allowing for a further gap to open between them, and running the risk of getting skewered by dodging a set of needles that can be easily manipulated to do so, he heads straight toward the vicious assassin.

With great annoyance at the unrelenting knight, she swings her arm in a gesture. The spikes respond by launching off the slab, slicing through the air toward their mark. Ephrial, already familiar with such an attack from the Watcher, rolls along the ground, allowing them to pass over his tumbling form while keeping his speed. Taken by her own attack, she materializes the curved blade of a shamshir again, parrying the projectiles into small shards.

Seizing the opportunity, the mercenary-knight cleaves downward as he recovers from the somersault. Kyrie manages to keep the fiery blade at bay with the True Ice of her whip, tossing the sword aside and holding the line taught with both hands. Dark red seeps from her cold grip as her offhand tightens around an icy blade, enduring the pain as she prevents herself from being sliced in half.

"I think there's a reason why the whip is your choice of weapon…" Ephrial's perceiving gaze stares into the fuchsia orbs of his enemy. "It's a commanding armament, able to control a distance as well as its opponents moves. The oppressive style of such a design forcefully demands respect. Needless to say, it's rather noisy for an assassin—far more suited for someone who _wants_ attention."

"Silence! Your life is mine!" a surge of strenuous anger ignites further.

"Can you really take my life if you do not even possess your own?"

 **"** **SHUT UP!"**

The Iceborn agent pushes him off and winds her whip in fury, ignoring the pain in her hand. Large pieces of the ceiling interrupt the skirmish, falling around and in between them. A wedge of stone and ice crashes betwixt the two, cracking the floor under its heft. With broken concentration, Kyrie loses stable footing, and struggles to recover using her control over ice.

Denying her ability to retaliate, Ephrial swings his sword into the hunk of debris, sending it sliding into Kyrie. Braum's grip quivers slightly due to the room's convulsing, and a full-on quake runs through the building once again. The roof begins falling apart at an accelerating rate, and the air becomes thick with frost and ice crystals as cratering articles of ruin kick up the frozen sediment.

"This is far from over…! I have left my mark on you as my target!" Kyrie points at him from across a growing wall of wreckage. "I shall find you and claim your life. I always do…" the last of her words fading as she disappears into the frosty haze.

Ephrial, weaving between the caving surroundings, rushes toward his trapped ally. "It looks like we've overstayed our welcome."

"Go, friend! Braum will hold little longer…!" under immense pressure.

A gilded blade breaks the remaining pillars of caging ice. "Not an option. Let's go while we still have an opening," pointing at the hallway atop the demolished stairways.

"Hurry! This is no time—"

"We're getting you out of here, whether you like it or not. Now, get ready…"

Ephrial hatches a plan to safely knock Braum out of the way of the mountain of frozen earth. He runs behind a block of ice left by Kyrie, slicing the face into a smooth, partially-melted surface as he passes by. The mercenary sheathes his blade, and braces himself in a sword-draw stance. Undying flames, contained within the sheath, begin to create a strong, outward pressure that Ephrial holds bottled with his hand firmly on the hilt.

After a moment of build-up, he swings outward, unleashing a very swift, concentrated torrent of fire and metal. The blast smashes into the block, in turn, sliding straight into Braum, carrying him from out of the hold. Along the way, the ice melts, and the Freljordian catches himself with his shield. With a tumultuous crash, the mountain of ice and rock meteors into the ground, shaking the very foundation of the entire palace. The mercenary catches up to the strongman and his poro, and the two push through their exhaustion, racing to the exit before the entire room surrenders to gravity.

"There are no stairs! You must go first!" priming his shield.

"Very well."

Ephrial follows along, and springs off the shield with assistance, landing a grip on the balcony's rail. He pulls himself up and swings his legs over, then turns around, looking for a way to allow Braum to ascend.

"It is okay, Ephrial. Every adventure has its end! At least I got to see—"

The sound of a fiery slash cuts him off, and the large mural of Avarosa tits down on its axis. A regal frame tumbles below, wedging itself in the fallen wreckage, forming a ramp for the Heart of the Freljord to climb with ease.

"—Enough of that already. Let's go." Ephrial extends his arm out to aid Braum up in the last bit of distance where the painting cuts short.

A large hand clasps around his wrist, and the mercenary-knight tightly braces himself for the extreme heft of the hulking Freljordian and his shield. With the painful strain of pulling most of their weight up, he aids Braum in the summit, and they begin a sprint through a very long, dark hallway of a royal passage. The two can barely see the vapor of their breath, huffing in front of them through the bitter air as they approach a light in the distance.

Raging sounds of an avalanche chase them up the slope of their escape. Every step towards their freedom is a possible end to their misadventure. With death on their heels, they push themselves with the very strength that bore them figures of renown tales. Together, they leap out of the final stretch, avoiding the devastating force spewing out after them, tossing sharp edges and small boulders of ice and rock. The two turn around, watching as an entire plane of snow collapses downwards to fill the gap of the palace that had given in, forever burying the ancient secrets within.

Heavily breathing, "You are certainly…stubborn…like ram of highest peak."

"…I've been told something like that before…"

"You refused to take no for answer, even in the face of giant, crushing death… Is this what you mean by fighting fate?" thinking back to the mammoth they had faced.

"I suppose… It's complicated."

"I see… I have learned much from you, friend! This has been great adventure, indeed!"

Ephrial puts a hand over the pouch on his belt, finding it light and empty. A brief moment of shock is quelled by a wash of relief, spotting Avarosa's Eye in the snow in front of them. Tired, but unrelenting, he trails through the powdery terrain, knee-high in the frozen tundra.

"The Watchers…we must warn Ashe of their return…" the Freljordian says gravely, thinking over of the events that have just transpired.

"Then you might wish to leave immediately. While I might otherwise find myself fighting for your cause, I simply haven't the _time_ …"

Before Ephrial can get in grabbing distance, a rustling in the snow abruptly pops up from the wintery sheet. Perfectly camouflaged fur surrounds two coal eyes that blink at him with a bemused look. The giant, rabbit-like creature looks down at the warm, glowing sphere in front of it. With its deceivingly-wide jaws, it snaps up the sphere and stores it in a cheek-pouch, now bulging out prominently from its head. A snowy figure hops off, leaving obvious footprints in the snow as it flees.

Ephrial and Braum watch in perplexity as the unexpected thief scampers into the wilderness. The swordsman sighs, placing a hand over the hilt of his blade as he takes the first steps of a hunting trip.

"…You've got to be kidding me."


	22. Chapter 22: A Future's Past

**-  
Chapter 22**

 ** _A Future's Past_**

 _"_ _It's about that time again… If they haven't jumped me by now, then it only means they want to put Cerina back into the equation. Cowards…!"_

A young Ephrial dashed through the highly-decorated halls of a school that bred generations of the most brutal generals in Noxian history. It was regarded as a prestigious institute, and that made it only more dangerous for those of mixed descent. To add insult to injury, the wealthy would always get extra incentives if they gave rather generous donations, especially if it granted their children an advantage over the others. Such is the corruption with any business, even in Noxus.

The only arguable reason nothing was ever done about this is the excuse that it encourages a competitive spirit within the students, creating a mindset that strength must fill the remaining gap to prevail amongst peers. It is that mentality that translates into the military, where no advantage is given, other than one's own strength and cunning. Unfairness is the true lesson of Noxian education. The half-blood twins knew that more than anyone.

Deft steps sprinted over the marble flooring, and weaved between crowds of the other students in the same uniform. Feet _'accidently'_ found their way in front of his path, as they just so happened to always do, alongside the occasional run-in at bludgeoning force by _'mistake'_. Plenty of practice made it quite easy for the cerulean-eyed youth to nimbly navigate around such obstacles. That was exactly what most people around him had turned into…obstacles.

"Hey, Greenblood! Where ya goin' in such a hurry?" a sneering voice jeered from ahead, and three menacing students stepped out from an intersecting hallway.

Racing boots came to a stop "I don't have time for your games today, Polero. Let me pass!"

The two locked eyes, and Polero's lackeys took an assertive position by his side, barring the passage. He was a tough kid, even for his age, most likely due to his father being a voluntary participant in the Fleshing arena. Perhaps he inherited his vicious mindset, too, as willingly subjecting one's self to such punishment was the thought of a madman…or someone with high ambitions to climb into power.

There were many that didn't take kindly to the Noxian-Ionian kind, but Polero seemed to hold a special enmity for Ephrial. It wouldn't be until years later that the reason would come to light. Time and time again, he would lure the half-blood into a corner, often using his sister as bait.

"Looking for your beloved sis?"

"Where is she…!?" Ephrial growled.

The seventh-year student gave a wide, heckling smile, and took a glance at an imaginary timepiece on his wrist. "Oh, I don't know…by now, probably running into our friends at the sparring guild."

Of course… It was a popular building where many tested their mettle against each other, and practiced their brutal techniques in a less…lethal environment. Seeing people gathering there to fight, especially figures of a particularly aggressive nature, was a perfectly normal sight. It's a superb place to hide one's sinister intentions, as injuries were far from uncommon there. Additionally, considering the location, it's an ideal place to prey on someone on their way home from their studies.

"Well, seeing as you're not going anywhere…why don't we have a little chat, old friend?"

A burning cerulean gaze stared, "Get out of the way."

"Aw, c'mon. This is how you treat your superior? We have a special lesson to deal with dogs that don't heel to their masters…" Polero approached with his like-minded followers.

The quick-thinker waited for them to approach close enough. One last step, and the minion on the right felt a knee rocket into his gut. Ephrial used the limp student to keep a gap between himself and the other two. As the ruffians stepped around, the half-blooded boy swiftly rolled over the hunched back of his first target, and evaded the grappling hands reaching to restrain him. With a simple block and twist, a right-hook landed the second aggressor at Ephrial's mercy, his arm locked behind his back. As Polero stepped forward, the Noxian-Ionian tossed his peer head-first into his stomach. The malefic student bent forward with the impact, and allowed the blue-eyed youth to leap onto his shoulder. With a hard kick-off, using the Noxian's back, the half-blood continued his sprint to his sister's aid.

"Get…get back here, you filthy greenblood!" Polero coughed out, winded from the sudden impact.

Ephrial ignored his comment with a certain sense of disdain toward such derision, and kept his eyes forward while on an unstoppable track toward the guild.

'Greenblood' is one of a handful of derogatory terms for the Noxian-Ionian mix. It was formerly a slur for Zaunites, in reference to their gruesome and careless ways that resulted in peculiar, and often grotesque, products. Such experiments, especially those conducted on human subjects, would result in odd changes in pigmentation, even in their very blood, though such a case was quite seldom. As Noxus and Zaun gradually began tolerating each other, even to the point of opening trade routes, such insults found a new purpose against Ionians; the 'green' being targeted at the Ionian closeness to nature, and being seen as primitive in the Noxian perspective.

 _"_ _Hang in there, Cerina…I'll be there soon…!"_

Ephrial ran down a flight of stairs, hopping over the railing to cut down on time. His backpack weighed heavily on his shoulder. As the lockers of those that share his heritage were often targets of severe vandalism, he was forced to carry all of his belongings at once. Noxus may have a one-track mind set on battles and war, but they do not lack in diverse education, with many individual studies. However, each study is still connected to combat down the line, one way or another, from history to engineering. The thick books of the prominent school felt like logs as he followed the path that lead through a portion of the expansive Ivory Ward Marketplace.

The young student's destination came into sight, and his eyes darted around the scene. With plenty of daylight left, the building was still active, and crowds surrounded the outside as people went about their daily lives.

 _"_ _There are too many people around… Where could they—"_ keen vision spotted a very narrow, seldom-used alley that stood between the back of the sparring guild and a wall. _"There!"_

If someone planned on mugging or murdering someone, that was the place to do it. The view from the entrance to the alley was obscured by a wooden fence and a pile of crates. No one could see what was going on unless they were passing right by the opening at the correct angle. The wall behind the guild was left undeveloped, as it is technically a part of the castle belonging to High Command. Much of the mountain that the city-state is carved in belongs to them, unseen chambers buried beneath layers of stone. To own a building so close to the castle is an honor and a privilege, and it was quite literally where one could find themselves caught between a rock and a hard place.

"Cerina!" he cried out to his twin as he raced over the fence and past the crates.

There she was, a youthful girl with long, dark blue hair and cerulean eyes. The standard-issue shoes of her uniform backed up slowly against a wall, stepping past a newly-dried blood stain, born from the previous night, amidst many old ones. Two of Polero's cronies blocked her only escape as they slowly crept up on her, savoring the taste of fear.

Before they could take another step, a hard-leather pack slammed into the back of one of their heads. The weight behind the force was enough to knock him flat on the ground, face planted on the stone floor. Ephrial took the other target by surprise as he was still figuring out just what happened to his classmate. A brutal fist to the jaw sent him spinning over his staggering self, and slammed into the wall of stone.

"Ephrial!" worriedly calling back to her brother, as he positioned himself protectively in front of her.

"Two against one, huh? That's some real 'Noxian honor' you have there."

"Heh…surrounding the enemy is a legitimate strategy," the first of the two picked himself back up, wiping red from his lip.

"Outnumbering a single girl, herding her into a corner, and knowing she would never offer a fight… It's nice to see Noxus' most prominent school's lessons are being practiced on the most docile of targets. Your parents must be proud of the fortunes they've spent."

A familiar voice entered the alleyway. "Just as the hawk preys on that which cannot fight back, we carry on the tradition of the food chain. In life, the weak are culled out by the strong. That's nature for you. You should know all about philosophical stuff like that, Greenblood. The weak must be stamped out…and as Noxians, it's our _duty_ to deal with scum like your kind."

Polero joined in with five more behind him, each delinquent with a proud, arrogant smile pasted on their faces. Their shadows darkened the already-dim surroundings.

"Ever the scholar. If only you were as confident in your own strength as you are your tongue."

The irate peer drew closer, eager to get blood on his fists. A figure stopped within view of the alley's opening, and peered through the broken boards of the fence. It was Ronin, their headmaster. His cold stare met with Ephrial's, and the school official merely adjusted his glasses before moving on; his stoic face unchanged. He knew very well the plight of the Noxian-Ionian students, yet never did anything about it. Why would he? After all, he lived in a nation where violence is the very keystone of daily routine, and received many generous donations from the nobles that sent their children to his institute.

The half-blooded pacifist spoke with the speed of anxiety at their present situation. "Ephrial, I'm so sorry! I know you told me to take the long route home, but—"

"It's okay, Sister," a matching pair of oceanic eyes looked back at her with a warm smile. "I know."

Ephrial turned his gaze back to the approaching gang, a hardened visage that stared the inevitable in the face without blinking. He was outnumbered eight-to-one, with no back-up, and no escape route. With a readied stance, the misfit braced himself for a fight of overwhelming defeat, but not without the intention of making it difficult for them. Going down without taking at least a couple with him was just not his style.

 **`*~\\-~vVv~-/~*`**

Snow gently falls from the sky, a calm break from the strong, piercing winds of the Freljordian wilderness. The two travelers approach a large mountain that towers the sky beyond the crisp clouds above.

"Thanks again for helping me retrieve Avarosa's Eye."

"It was not problem, Ephrial. Thank _you_ for not turning my rabbit friend into 'shish kebab'," Braum chuckles, trying out the new words in his mouth.

"This is the peak, huh? Are you sure Anivia would be willing to help me, much less travel that far? The last interaction we had was on the Rift, and it wasn't pleasant…"

"Do not worry, my friend. Anivia is ally, and very wise beyond our lifetime. She will help you."

"I hope you're right. She's the only means of getting back in time…"

None of the rune-engraved tablets from the Institute are marked with a location that would be close enough to travel back to Kalamanda on time by foot. His only option is to reach Anivia's nest at the top of one of Freljord's tallest mountains, and beseech her aid in flying him to a straight path there.

"How long do you have left?"

"Four days. Three, if I include how long it should take me to get to Kalamanda by flight."

"It takes about four days to reach the top!"

"Then I'll do it in two," glacial eyes of determination rise to the peak, hidden behind a thick layer of cotton floating overhead.

A large mustache grins with admiration for the fiery resolve. "Heheh! Then allow me to give you head start!" stepping ahead and priming his shield.

"One last lift for the road, I take it? Very well. Thank you," preparing for a short sprint through the snow.

"No, thank **you** , my fiery friend. I have learned much from you, and I shall take those lessons with me to battle against the Watchers!"

Ephrial nods, and snow kicks up around him as he dashes forward to the near-unbreakable ramp. With a spring of muscle pushing the shield upward, the swordsman leaps off, ascending a forty-foot tall ledge. He doesn't look back, keeping himself focused on the task at hand, and knowing that each step and every second bears the weight of importance. The half-blood begins his summit, reaching at ice-cold handholds and slippery, unstable footing. It is man versus nature; a tale as old as time itself. An unflinching spirit presses forward through his unabating trial, further pushing his limits. The stinging bitterness of the frigid air penetrates through his armor. A small, subtle warmth of the crystal in his possession reminds him of the hope that still remains. The curse of fate has not yet won…and he'll make sure it never will.

Never again.


	23. Chapter 23: Slayer

**-  
Chapter 23**

 ** _Slayer_**

She had my back, and I had hers. Cerina wouldn't take up arms against another living being, but that worked out just fine. It was more practice for me. While I handled things on the frontlines, she would use her talents to heal me from safety. Anyone who tried to reach her with the slightest thought of malice would find themselves overwhelmed with pain and instant regret. That never stopped them from trying again and again, however… Not by a longshot.

Polero looked at me from across the room with an angered contempt that only grew over time. Our instructor was just about finishing up, bringing his lecture to an end with some closing remarks about a bloody battle during the Rune Wars.

"You have heard the phrase that there is strength in numbers…but a mind sharper than a sword can cut swarms of enemies down where their battalions become nothing more than body counts."

I don't know if he heard those words, as if he hadn't already studied them long in advance, but his glare remained fixed. We were dismissed, and I picked up my supplies before leaving. As usual, Polero remained behind, as a 'prim and proper' model student would. Such was the guise that allowed him to get away with many dishonorable deeds. Of course, his parents' money played its part, too.

Arriving early to grab a seat next to the door paid off, as it allowed me to slip out before I would be held up. More often than not, an Ionian half-blood would be chosen to stay behind and clean; a grim task with an old bucket of slightly-soapy water and something of a slightly larger-than-normal toothbrush. Scrubbing the sparring chamber was supposed to "build character," as the instructors would say… It was a six-hour character-building lesson someone would have to learn every night. I've since lost count how many times I was "randomly chosen" for that task. It was the longest school year of my life…of _our_ lives.

Cerina was supposed to meet me at the fountain in the courtyard after each lesson. I would always walk her to the next class, not allowing her to become prey to those that may do her harm. It was my job to protect her—my duty. Father always stressed the importance of his little girl, most probably a protective instinct as he knew she was a sheep among wolves. While she remained primarily in the benevolent care and guidance of our mother, I would train under the strict guidance of our father, essentially working double to make up for Cerina's pacifism. I didn't resent him for it, though. He was right; she had to be protected in a city-state where many half-bloods would just happen to vanish without a trace every so often. However, I never pushed myself for the sake of my training, nor for the promise to Mother. I always did it for Cerina, the one friend I had in the world, growing up. It's not as if we never talked with other half-Ionians…but rather, none of them understood the true strife behind such prejudice. It was our parents that started the whole movement, after all…and our birth that set it aflame. The very oppression and prejudice that followed was our birthright.

It was the end of the school day, and I waited for my sister for approximately ten minutes. She was always extremely punctual, and anything over seven minutes was highly unusual. Naturally, I felt something was wrong. So, I did what I would usually do in that scenario… I went to a secluded area where I knew they would be waiting for me, and stood out in the open. That year's particular "playground" was the mess hall. It was under construction after a Zaunite exchange student had a chemical mishap that combusted a third of the building. No one dared enter under the unstable roofing and fractured holdings of the place, making it perfect for a get-together away from prying eyes.

"Always eager to walk straight into a slaughter. You're a glutton for punishment, Ephrial," a voice called from above, drenched in arrogance.

"Where is she, Polero?!"

"You know, today's lesson had me thinking…maybe I have been going about this the wrong way. If a Noxian general could defeat the odds by dividing an army more than twice as large as his own by forcing them to split, why not apply that here? Maybe, instead of luring you here with your sister, only to have you two work in tandem together, I could isolate you two…making you suffer individually. I'm sure you have that 'twin connection' where you can tell the other is in pain, correct? That only sweetens the pot…"

We were 10th year students, only age fifteen, and he already possessed the sadistic mind of a serpent. Twisting a lesson about defeating overwhelming odds into some method of torture, while he already possesses the upper-hand, only spoke volumes of his developing cruelty. While he would target others of mixed descent, his ploys always grew increasingly dark towards me. Cerina was the perfect tool to bait me out right where he wanted me, and I would willingly oblige every time. That same look gleams in his eyes each confrontation. He didn't want to kill me…he wanted to break me. To dismantle my spirit and eclipse me under his triumphant shadow. He would not be satisfied with anything less.

"Enough tricks! Leave Cerina out of this!"

"Ah, but that's just it! We let your sweet sister off this time, merely detouring her away from your little meeting spot. She's probably home now, worried about her dear brother. Her imagination must be running wild at what's happening…at what is _about_ to happen."

He stepped out of the shadows of what used to be the rafters of the cafeteria, that signature grin of his strewn across his face. A dozen others revealed themselves from the dark surroundings, cracking their knuckles and stretching their shoulders in anticipation. Polero had a charisma about him—a certain flair that attracted those of like minds to his cause. Pride is a dangerous thing to one's self…and dangerous to others when they have power to act on it.

"So, that's your game…"

I was as tense as the air around me, but inside, I was put at ease with the thought of Cerina being safe for now. Polero was too full of himself to lie, as there was more value to his ego to be found in boasts of truth and openness about his ruses. Still…there was no way to tell what that could turn into one day.

"Very well then," I said calmly. "Let's get this over with."

I took a stance, ready to give it my all. Thirteen on one, surrounded, and without a weapon, left me with little chance, if any, to overcome the odds. It was nothing new… He would always have me outnumbered. Eventually, I would start to shift the fights into my favor, and so he would gradually increase his assaulting posse. This, however, was not him picking a fight… It was exactly as how he had called it: a slaughter.

They began to close in, slow steps savoring the anxiousness before the bloodshed, but with a certain sense of caution. I'd taken at least half of them down before, and on more than one occasion. Had I been full Noxian like them, they might have left me alone altogether. However, the shame of being bested by a half-Ionian didn't sit well with them, and their eyes beamed at me, ravenous for revenge.

Running wasn't an option. They never left us alone, no matter how many times we fought, and running away would only ensure the stereotype placed on us. Such an act could have only produced a drastic backlash upon our parents' reputations, and shattered any hopes of sundering the prejudice that followed us in our very shadows. Running was _never_ a choice.

Before they could make the first move, I grabbed a chair as I hopped and rolled over a table, bringing it along with me. The four-legged piece of furniture broke over one of my assailants, clearing a path for me to leap past him and break out of being surrounded. Naturally, the others chased me as I attempted to find higher ground. Names were called out, mostly slurs directed at my heritage, of course. I paid them no mind, and kept my eyes sharp for some sort of vantage point where I could turn things in my favor. Fortunately for me, the counter where food was served lied just ahead. The explosion hadn't caused too much of that area to collapse, so I slid over the counter, and landed myself on the other side.

This was Noxus, after all, so all of my pursuers were physically fit, and didn't find it very difficult to follow me over. Three of them leapt in behind me, and I quickly unlatched the shutters, letting them fall shut before locking the lever in place. The rest were cut off by the wire mesh that barred their entry, and I quickly put my training to use. This was about the time it was becoming more apparent to me that Noxus only possesses half of the lesson on fighting.

It was always about the offensive; no room for any kind of intentional defense other than armor. Perhaps it sounds bland and careless, but that's exactly what Noxus has always been like when it comes to battle. You'll never really see any noteworthy Noxian hiding behind a shield. Such was considered a coward's tool, and virtually banished from the city-state altogether. It would always come down to the all-in charge, and these guys were no exception.

Blinded with the desire to get blood on their hands, they launched their fists at me with their full might. One by one, I redirected their assaults, and created openings that I used to temporarily cripple their motion A knee kicked out here, an arm majorly twisted there, and a good old-fashioned back-fist to the cerebellum for a round of severe disorientation.

The others wasted no time, and were already barging down the door from the back entrance. A few remained on the other side of the counter, making sure I could not escape the way I came. I looked around hastily for a way out, and spotted a hole in the ceiling above my head. It was too high for me to reach without some extra altitude, so I turned to the door and braced for wave two. My plan was to let them charge me, and use the tallest one to provide me with a height boost out of a death pit. If it had only been that easy.

Unfortunately for me, the lead battering ram happened to be an upperclassman, aspiring to join the Slayer team. The sport is one of Noxus' most deadly and primal of all exhibitions, where a man or woman, using absolutely nothing but their bare hands and raw strength, take on fierce monsters in a battle to the death. It is explicitly for those of physical prowess, as magic-users have their own equivalent event.

He was big, and had to have been at least three years older than the rest. Arms, outstretched to the sides for an inescapable grapple, burst forward, and tackled me straight through the locked shutters. The very hinges tore out of the walls alongside us, noisily scattering as they skipped and bounced along the cracked floor. Blood poured down his scalp from the reckless bombardment, but he didn't seem to pay it any notice. A powerful fist collided with my face, and everything turned into a haze of double-vision.

In a split moment, the others formed a ring, finding entertainment in spectating rather than participating. They didn't want to get in the way of a senior slayer the same way no one wants to get in between a lion and its meal. Hit after hit, it made it hard to collect myself. All I was able to do was raise my arms and try to lessen the blows. Even though I could feel my body starting to give into the savagery, all I was able to hear was a voice that urged me on. There's a way…there's always a way to win. My father would not tolerate any other way or thinking. "The only impossibility is impossibility itself." Clearly, he never saw the paradox in that, but nonetheless, they were words to live by.

Somewhere between the pain and the daze, I began contemplating the situation. The slayer's pace didn't slow, backed by stamina gained through vigorous training. Each strike was evenly paced, and I began calculating how much time I would have to land a counter. About three quarters of a second, barely enough time to do anything. In order to make a worthwhile attempt, I had to extend that time somehow. Yet, with a burly athlete pinning me down with his weight, and a vice firmly clamped on my collar, there was only so much I could do. Like the hammer that kept bruising my face, the idea hit me. It took him three quarters of a second to wind his arm up and lash out another punch, and while that was not enough time for me to throw one of my own, it would take less than that amount of time to knock his elbow out of its lock.

So, I did the only reasonable thing. I let him take another direct hit at my face, and received blistering pain along my cheekbone. A minor sacrifice to extend the time for me to pull off a retaliation. With my eyes locked on his, I struck at his joint that held me pinned, and his elbow gave in to its natural bend. That's when I grabbed his collar back, and pulled him down towards me. With a bloody impact, I smashed my skull into his face, which sent the senior into a whirlwind of unexpected pain. His recoil gave me the opportunity to kick him off, and I forced myself to get up.

To others, this brute was a peer, a stalwart athlete, and a future general to be feared. In my eyes, he was nothing more than a threat to my sister's security. Such could not be allowed, and while the ring of Polero's goons remained stagnant for the time being, I decided to make a clear statement for them to witness.

I put all pain aside; made it irrelevant to the task at hand. All that mattered was taking this slayer down, at the very least, to make sure his business with me was not done, thus keeping his enmity with myself, and not Cerina. My knuckles cracked as I clenched them into fists, leveling my breathing off with a forced measure of Ionian practice. The daze I was in was forced to stay still, and my focus was regained from a dizzy blur. With a heavily wound up fist, and a long one-step lunge toward my adversary, I began my own flurry of attacks.

A direct hit to the stomach brought him down closer to my level, and I seized the moment by planting my knee into his face. His nose was severely damaged, and blood spewed all over his visage, coating my fist in the process as I finished off with an uppercut. There was no holding back—no mercy. It was a committed assault that could be described as no less than brutal to a fault. That's just how it was in Noxus. Only the strongest survive…and there are those that receive that motto as a message to take it upon themselves to cull out the weak.

I was surrounded by those that were in accordance with that way of thinking. My own message was well-received, in one way or another. I wouldn't give up. Yet, neither would they… Shocked as they were to see the damage done to the head of their barrage, they still closed in. There would be no honor given to a half-blood. Word of any such victory against a Noxian, especially one of renown or worth, was never allowed to exist, much less believed. Just as laws in the city-state protect the upper class, so did society trample on the half-Ionian "disgraces" in favor of even the lowest of the Noxian purebloods.

After a short-lived victory against a severe disadvantage, I found myself in the overwhelming fray of furious students. Strength in numbers, I suppose. It wasn't exactly a display of proud Noxian honor, but whenever it concerned someone of Ionian descent, anything was fair game.

A sudden burst of commotion entered the mess hall, and the frenzy died down under a heavy, commanding voice. The crowd I was buried in slowly dispersed enough for me to see Headmaster Ronin approach, accompanied by four physical instructors. He examined the scene with a cold, scrutinizing gaze behind those round spectacles of his.

"Who started this?" he said, a frigid, stoic demeanor.

Everyone held their tongues, and an understood silence washed over the room. Ronin's eyes met mine, as I laid on the floor spotted with pools of fresh crimson. All I could taste was blood, and even harsher times ahead. It only lasted a moment, but it was sharp—an intensity of knowing what happens when a Noxian-Ionian is caught in a situation easily manipulated to a crime of sorts. He was a hard man to read, but his eyes screamed of hatred, almost as if it were personal.

"I expect to see you all at my quarters at dawn. Lateness will not be tolerated."

With that, he turned around and left. There was no immediate punishment, and no names called out. The lack of such, combined with his known level of strictness, caused a wave of uneasiness. Everyone disbanded, but the tension seemed to remain. It was then that I realized Polero was not in the room. He must have known this would be the outcome, and left long before as to clear his name of any suspicion. If the others came to that realization at some point, it probably didn't matter too much to them. Better to be of some use to a powerful figure than to make him into a powerful enemy.

As the last of the others left the cafeteria, I felt a faint wisp of rejuvenation swirl through me, then surge into a major relief. Cerina then approached me from the shadows, and the green glow of magic around me dissipated. She had hidden herself, perhaps having arrived at the same time as Ronin, considering she would not have hesitated to start a healing spell for me had she arrived sooner.

"Cerina… Thank you," I said, still worse for wear as I slowly rose to my feet.

"Are you okay…?" the sweet voice of innocence asked.

"It may be too soon to answer that," Ronin's pending punishment on my mind. "Did you lead the headmaster here?"

"N-no! I was chased away from our usual rendezvous, and when I found out what they had planned for you, I ran straight here."

"I see. Then Polero himself planned that, too. Clever."

"What are you going to do now…?"

"Well, I have a meeting at dawn."

"I'll speak to father! Maybe he can—"

"No. His status is already on edge from a variety of affairs. I'll have to deal with this myself."

"Are you sure?"

"I've no alternative. Ever since we stepped foot in this academy, we've been playing their game by their rules."

Tears began to swell in her eyes. I already knew what she was thinking…we've had that conversation many times before. She wanted to be able to hold her own, and arm herself with the principals of combat. However, it just was not in her nature to bring harm to a living being, even for her own sake. If her benevolence allowed her to hate anything in this world, it was being responsible for any harm inflicted upon me. I knew that feeling well, which is why I would never let any come to her.

As twins, we were the same in so many ways, but also bound to each other by what made us opposites. Only one of us was able to fight, and only one could be allowed to shed tears.

 **`*~\\-~vVv~-/~*`**

Ephrial runs against the wind, the Winter chill biting at his armor with buildup of frost and ice. The air howls alongside the hungry cries of a pack of whitefangs, and the draft carries the scent of their quarry to their noses, further fueling their hunger. The mercenary-knight presses against the forces of nature, aiming to find some way of evening the odds against a pack of hunters on their home turf.

Whitefangs are the largest known breed of wolves in Runeterra, getting their name from the pure white fur that makes them difficult to spot in the frozen tundra where they dwell. Their prowess in a land where food is scarce makes them a formidable rival to the many tribes that inhabit the Freljord. Often times, hunting down one of these feral beasts, and claiming a fang as proof, is the task given to those seeking a rite of passage. Their senses alone are far keener than their distant cousins across Valoran, and the lack of plentiful food makes them twice as vicious.

The icy air stings his throat as he breathes, carving his way through the heavy, vision-reducing flurry of snow beating down on him. Hungry howls and snarling draw closer, and the half-blood spots a small opening in the side of the mountain. Snow-covered boots continue to ascend the treacherous summit, and a blazing sword sizzles out of its sheathe. With razor teeth now practically at his heels, he lunges for the crack in the rock and ice, just big enough for him to dash through. Ephrial plants the sword down behind him, blocking the hole off with a door of unquenchable flame.

He huffs heavily, sending visible plumes of his breath rising through the air. The resourceful swordsman has bought a short respite, collecting himself from a restless journey up the mountain so far. Ravenous barks and snapping teeth keep calling out to him from beyond the wall of flame, refusing to give up a chance at the fresh meat that walked right into their territory.

A deep growl echoes around him, coming from inside the small cavern. Ephrial turns at the sound, clashing gazes with a large beast; its body riddled in scars. There can be no doubt that this is the alpha wolf. Knowing every square foot of this mountain better than he does, Ephrial surmises that the clever predator took a detour while he sent his pack to chase him forward, attempting to cut him off for a clean kill.

Drawing his sword from the crevice he came through will only spell out death for him. The only way out of the situation is to demand passage from the very beast that controls this domain. Slowly, the half-blood bends his knees and clenches his fists, preparing for the inevitable do-or-die moment.

Claws scratch at the ice surrounding the burning obstacle, attempting to dig through the frozen wall, and bypass the scorching flames. Incessant snarls and howls call past the barrier from the outside, eager to sink their teeth into their hunt. Ears twitch toward the commotion taking place just beyond their reach, and with further excitement, they begin pacing back and forth along the snow, trying to get a good peek through the dancing fire.

A blast of melting snow causes them to leap back in surprise, and the fiery wall disappears from sight. Thick layers of fur shake off the excess snow, teeth baring and paws holding their ground. A distinct and ugly crack rings out from underneath the resulting mound. Ephrial rises amidst the surrounding predators, sword burning brightly, and a stream of dark crimson running down his arm.

The scent of their leaders' blood weighs heavily on their noses, and the remaining wolves take a reluctant pause from their vocalization. Sight of their fallen alpha further presses their aggression down, falling to their pack mentality as they submit in acknowledgement to the presence of their new master.

Ephrial's cerulean gaze ignores them, and turns back toward the ascending path that leads to the top. Fresh scratches from feral claws and teeth bleed from his arms and neck, quickly going numb from the unforgiving chill of the Freljordian atmosphere. Slaying a giant wolf with his bare hands is far more than he had expected from climbing a mountain already known for being extremely arduous to journey. Nevertheless, the wintery land itself has initiated him as one of its own.

Unwavering steps push on once again, fighting through the cold exhaustion brought upon by an unrelenting test of perseverance. The whitefangs, driven by an instinctual form of honor, put their ferociousness to rest, and let him pass uncontested. They do not follow him, knowing a lone wolf when they see one.

The relentless wind of the frozen tundra continues to pierce through the battle-tested armor; a red shadow in the face of the pale storm. Determination gleams in his pelagic eyes. With each step he takes, he defies all those that would have him dead, the past, and fate itself. Every move he makes rewrites a portion of history still in his power to change.

His sword remains steady with a free-willed loyalty of a mercenary, lit aflame by the oathbound promises of a knight.


	24. Chapter 24: Strength for Two

**-  
Chapter 24**

 ** _Strength for Two_**

The air is very thin at this reaching altitude, and a small cloud wisps over the peak of the ice-capped mountain. Heavy breaths of excursion plume visibly from the mercenary-knight's mouth as he pulls himself upward. One hand over another, and careful choices of footholds, he climbs out of the passing mist of a fluffy body of water vapor. Weary oceanic eyes look above, spotting an opening in the permafrost that glitters in the sunlight of an early morning.

A chilly breeze sweeps through his hair, and specks of snow flutter like embers around him, flying into his cheek before skipping off into the expansive sea of blue. With a tired, deep, yet conservatively-paced breath, he reaches for the next ice-clad rock. Ephrial continues with caution, knowing that rushing can lead to carelessness, and result in every deed done for naught.

Small pebbles crumble away, descending into the abyss the swordsman has summited, as he hoists himself over the cliff. He shuffles himself away from the edge, making sure he is too far to accidentally slide off to his doom. Lying prone on the frozen shelf of his destination, he takes a moment of respite to gain the strength to rise to his feet, but no more than needed. He cannot rest until he has fulfilled his duty. If his willpower won't finish carrying him through, then the pain of failure will.

Exhausted, the Blazing Swordsman steps into the cave, his eyes scanning the icy walls for signs of life. In the middle, an enormous nest sits, made of branches and thin trees, frosted in place with true ice. As the journeying swordmaster approaches, the sound of his fatigued, but unfaltering steps, softly echo throughout the dwelling.

"You're a hard bird to reach," subtly squeezing in a sly play on words as he stops in front of the bundle of gathered nesting. "…Anivia?"

He sighs at the lack of response, finding an empty roost. There is no time for a major delay. His only option now is to fly on those ancient wings of ice. The closest teleportation spots to Kalamanda in his collection of runes are in Noxus and Demacia, both places he would find himself facing far more difficulty traversing than even this mountain.

Ephrial closes his eyes in contemplation, struggling to come up with options this late in his journey, and in his present location. _"There has to be a way…there's always a way!"_ recalling the disciplining words of his past. He hammers his fist in frustration against one of the partially-frozen logs of the avian's bedding. With a loud crack, a branch snaps off, bouncing a few times before landing at well-traveled boots.

The half-blood slowly opens his eyes, examining the piece of ice-coated timber. Thoughts begin to stir in his mind, racing to the conclusion of a brewing idea. True Ice never melts; however, these trees and branches still remain intact underneath the layer of enchantment. Additionally, the film of magical permafrost is rather thin, making it quite easy to shatter. Ephrial turns his gaze to the clear, open sky outside. It would be extremely easy to see a smoke signal above any clouds that may obscure sight of it. There is only one known being in the Freljord that dwells at this altitude, making its origin unmistakable to the eyes that spot it.

With a loud series of snaps and crackles, Ephrial gathers the nest, sections at a time, placing the broken structure at the entrance of the cave. He does not take chances, and moves every last bit of flammable material to the outside. Much of the ice still clings onto the wood, forming tubes with kindling stuck in the middle. It isn't perfect, but it should suffice just fine. If anything, the trapped pieces of bark might help the fire burn longer, seeing as less of it is exposed to flame at a given time. He places the last of the fuel onto the pile, and ignites a signal pyre with a lick of his blade.

"Apologies, Anivia. Looks like I owe you a new nest."

Before long, the stack turns into a blaze, and smoke fills the air with a distinct plume that can be seen for miles, depending on the clouds in the surrounding area. It would be hard to misconstrue this as a normal signal fire from a Freljordian tribe, and only one resident of the frozen wilderness can reach him before it long burns out.

Having nothing left to do but wait and hope, he walks over and turns his back to the wall. Pressing against it, he slides down, sitting restfully and letting himself fall limp. Flakes of snow fall off the dark brown locks of his organized mess of hair. A perilous trip to the frozen wilderness, with all its buried secrets, combined with virtually non-stop mountain climbing, has taken its toll.

As nothing beyond silence and the small crackling of flames fills the peaceful ambience, the half-blooded swordsman slowly slips away into an overdue slumber.

 **`*~\\-~vVv~-/~*`**

"Is that all?" a gruff, stern voice asked me.

With a blunt, metal sword used for training in my hand, I knelt on the ground, rapidly running out of breath. Wooden weapons aren't used in Noxus for training like other places. They betray the true heft of a Noxian weapon, and cannot be taken with the full seriousness of a life-or-death situation. Timber simply just didn't hurt as much.

"…Not…yet…!" I gasped as I tried to steady my breathing.

Using the blade as a support, I rose back up and readied myself for another round. The stalwart man in front of me waited, wearing the full armor of the height of his career. He was a Noxian general whose name could strike fear into battalions across the land. At least, when that name still existed.

With a calculated charge, I lunged toward him, arcing my blade in a form difficult to counter. It was useless; decades of experience overwhelming what little I had. There was no way for me to contest against an opponent with such an advantage over me. Yet, that was the whole point of my training.

I flew across the yard with the force of a powerful, one-handed swing. The sword let loose from my grip on impact, and before I could react, a military boot pinned my wrist to the ground. He looked down at me, pointing a shining blade to my neck.

"You've let your sword escape your hand. A careless mistake like that could cost you your life," he said.

"Weapons are important, but it's as you said…" huffing. "Only fools trust their lives to them!"

I would not let it end there. A daring backhand on the blade to clear it from my throat, and a flexible kick to the back of his knee caused him to step forward to keep his balance, and off of my arm. Swiftly, I turned over, but before I could reach the hilt of my sword, I was struck back down. Pinned once more on my back, a heavy boot weighed on my chest, under a tower of muscle clad in medals and victorious adornments.

"Not quick enough! You must be faster than that! Your enemies will show you no mercy, no quarter! For every one second, you must be able to accomplish three moves! If your opponent is just as swift, be swifter still!" he pressed down, as if physically instilling the lesson into me.

I held my silence and glared up at him, as I ineffectively tried to push his foot off of me.

"Hmm…" With a contemplating stare, he rubbed his hand along his dark brown beard. "You possess the spirit for it… However, you must be stronger, faster, more ruthless! You are not fighting for just one life."

A short silence, and a thoughtful sigh later, he released me and began walking back into the manor. "Pride is not a weapon; It is armor. That is why your foes constantly strike at it, hoping it will sunder and let them reach your core with their daggers." He sheathed his blade with poise and dignity. "Those who use their pride as a means of offense make themselves vulnerable to those who can take a hit. The only question is…who will break first?"

With that, I was left alone to recompose myself. I merely remained flat on the ground, surrounded in silence under the veil of night. A full moon gleamed in the distance above, amidst a starlit sky. My body riddled with pain, each bruise and mark swelling with a lesson. That's what training with my father was like. To anyone that didn't know him, they might have thought he was going full-force on me. Those that did would know he was holding back a great deal. In short, it was unfair, brutal, and more than exhausting.

Gentle footsteps approached along the grass. It was Cerina, coming to heal me as she always did after a fight. She knelt down alongside me, and spoke softly.

"Are you okay…?"

"…Yeah."

"…What do you think is going to happen?"

"I assume you mean with the headmaster?"

"Yes…"

"Nothing good, I'm sure."

"…I'm so sorry, Ephrial. It's all my fault, isn't it? If only I would allow myself to fight, maybe—"

"You've nothing to apologize for. It's not you that needs to change. It's this world. Noxus may be the pinnacle of keeping war alive as a tradition, but every nation has a history matted in blood. None of the current city-states would exist otherwise."

"Still…for violence to be the thing to end violence… Is there really no other way?"

"…Everything abides by rules of some nature. It is the victors that not only write history, but the rules of the age. For such to change, it must be rewritten in blood."

"War being the answer for everything is a true Noxian way of thinking… What of Ionia? What of Mother's lessons?"

"…It would be nice to think it were so simple. If you believe in something, that means you must stand up for it. Simply being passive can only go so far for so long. For a way of life to exist, so, too, must there be a way to defend it. There will be a time where even the most patient people of Ionia will be pushed to take arms, and they will use them with everything they have."

"I see… So, you think the world needs to change, yet it is unable to?"

"Don't know. I've never tried to change it."

She tittered and shook her head in a swelling sorrow, "…Now that it has all been said aloud, it does feel like a foolish thought that the world could change."

"…Perhaps, it starts with a place."

"A place?"

"The world is too big to change all at once, should it ever be possible. Yet, the biggest changes often start off with the smallest. Perhaps such a start could begin in a small place. A city, or town—one where prejudice is not a factor, and you don't feel as though you are wrong for being who you are."

"…Is that what you truly believe?"

"I believe in **_you_**."

She smiled. "Not an ounce of inherited magical aptitude, but ever the wizard with words. …Thank you. Now, let me treat your wounds," she began weaving a stream of healing arts.

"Not yet."

I slowly picked myself up, aching with every motion. Break time was over, and I needed to get back to training.

"But you have to meet Headmaster Ronin in the morning! You need your rest!"

"Rest? I know not the meaning of such a word," as I picked up a sword almost as battered as I.

"…Very well. Just be sure to wake me before you go."

She reluctantly departed, leaving me to take my stance and swing my blade. We always looked out for each other, but in different ways. As the one that inherited our mother's healing gift, she found me as her frequent patient to train her magic on. There was definitely no shortage of practice for her.

There I was, crickets chirping, and the wind whistling beneath my training sword. Every form, every last stroke had to be _perfect_ , from beginning to end. I could accept nothing less…and neither would all the strife that lied ahead. Every move stung, but I worked through it. It was only pain, after all. Only a reminder of the importance in feeling it. It meant that I was alive…and so long as I was, I could make sure she would be, too.

 **`*~\\-~vVv~-/~*`**

The sound of flapping wings approaches from the side, growing louder with every beat. A small gust of wind trails ahead of it, beaconing Ephrial from out of his slumber. The gentle flutter quickly becomes a gale, causing the mercenary-knight to slide across the icy floor, along with the burnt and permafrost remains of a giant nest.

Swiftly, the swordsman uses the force to somersault along the ground to his feet. He turns around with his hand over the gilded hilt of his blade, ready to respond to the abrupt entrance of a legendary figure. Looking at him is the icy glare of the Cryophoenix.

"This is perhaps one of the bravest things a mortal has ever done…or the most foolish," her voice coos with strength and wisdom.

"I've heard similar statements many times before. Honestly, I'm starting to think there is not much difference between the two."

"You have journeyed far from Valoran, and further yet to reach this summit. I do not believe we have a personal quarrel so parlous that you would come into my domain just to destroy my aerie. Tell me, what brings you here, Blazing Swordsman?"

"It would seem you know not of the current state of the League."

"However, it appears that you do," she approaches a few steps, towering over Ephrial.

"I'm currently pressed for time, and do not have the luxury of giving you a full explanation. There are still many unanswered questions, so all I can say for sure is that the Institute is under attack. I know not of who is behind it, but it would be fair to say they have connections deep within the League itself."

"If what you say is true, then why has word not spread of it immediately?"

"They are trying their best to suppress news of this from getting out, at least for as long as they can. Seeing as the Freljord is rather far, it would make sense that such scarce information has not yet reached you."

"There have been many great lengths traveled to organize such an opportunity," she turns her head to look outside. "Ancient forces have been stirring for quite some time now. The Watchers have returned, and they bring death and darkness with them. If other dark forces have awakened in other parts of the world, converging into one great storm, it would not be the first time."

"I suppose that saves me the effort of having to convince you."

"I would not be so quick to say so," she turns back to him, lowering her head to eye-level. "You still have yet to tell me what you want from me. One would not ascend such a treacherous mountain for a mere exchange of words."

"I've done a lot more than that just to get here," Ephrial takes out Avarosa's Eye for her to see.

"This is…!"

"Correct. If anyone alive has seen this before with their own eyes, I'm sure it had to have been you."

Anivia's interest piques. "What interest have you in such a relic? It holds no magic to benefit from."

"I've obtained it for a different purpose. The same purpose I have sought you to ask for your aid in."

"Tell me, young swordsman…what purpose do you speak of?"

"…To right what has been wronged. To fix something that should have never happened, and make sure it never happens again."

"And what role would I have in this?"

"I need you to fly me to Kalamanda before noon tomorrow."

"Kalamanda?"

"If you would like a deeper explanation, I would offer it on the way there."

The ancient being peers into his eyes, a sage gaze worth eons of life experience. Ephrial stares back, openly allowing her to gauge him. She tilts her head, and slowly cranes her neck back upright.

"I do not need an explanation. I see nothing but honest eyes set with resolve."

"Then you will help me?"

Anivia walks toward the entrance of her dwelling, stepping over the remains of what used to be her nest. "The world is changing. It always is. This wind, however, whispers of darkness unlike any before. We need all the light we can get to dispel the forces that would destroy us all."

"I may not exactly be a part of your Winter war, here in the Freljord."

"We are all connected. There is meaning in every snowflake," a strong benevolence speaks. "Climb aboard, swordsman…and mind the flames."

"You have my thanks." Ephrial approaches, and carefully climbs onto the Cryophoenix's back, trying not to ruffle any feathers, figuratively and literally.

She brings up their last encounter, in which the mercenary-knight landed on her, mid-flight, for a surprise attack. "It would appear that we are on the same team this time. I would expect you not to fly me into my own ice walls, should the opportunity arise."

"Apologies. If it's any consolation, that tower did not make it an easy landing for me."

"Do not apologize, Young One. Use that resourcefulness against that which threatens us all."

"Will you be able to make it to Kalamanda in time?"

"We should arrive there before the sun peaks. If we have a decent tailwind, even sooner."

"I think that's the first bit of good news I've heard for some time."

"You have endured a great deal to reach this far in your journey, for which this purpose has taken you through. Rest for now, mortal. Life passes so swiftly… You must find peace where you can."

Ephrial, too exhausted to refuse the offer, silently puts himself in a relaxed state. Anivia's record as a guardian through many lifetimes, as well as her alliance with the humanitarian and altruistic archer known as Ashe, has earned her the swordsman's trust.

The eternal creature extends her wingspan, and the very air around her seems to come alive in response. As the frozen sentinel of many eras past, she is the snow, wind, and ice of the Freljord.

"Let's soar!"


	25. Chapter 25: Crystal Scars

**-  
Chapter 25**

 ** _Crystal Scars_**

"That isn't fair!" a frustrated Cerina protested.

"Nothing they do to us ever is," I answered her, flatly.

"Why are they doing this!?"

"You know why."

"There has to be some other way!"

"The only alternative is for me to drop out, but that would only lead to further complications. Besides…if I were to surrender now, all of their focus would turn to you. I won't let that happen."

"…How long is this for?" she gradually slipped into a forced acceptance.

"Who knows. Perhaps until graduation…if they don't get what they want first," I began walking toward the academy.

My sister fell silent, and her eyes dropped to the floor. She ceased following me, taking a moment to let a harsh reality sink in. Over time, she fought me on my decisions less and less as she found it futile when my mind had been set. Of course, in the end, they weren't really my decisions… There was no genuine choice in the mix of things. Everything I did, I did because I had to. To surrender was never an option, and that was perhaps the very keystone of the Noxian way.

That's why I know that only infuriated them more…everyone who saw the Noxian-Ionian mix as weak, failures, and mistakes. The general population even treated yordles with more respect, and it made the mere thought of the future for us a very dark picture. We were the first generation of half-bloods, so we hadn't even gotten to the point of finding a place in the job market or military yet. Not that there would have ever been a place for us other than fodder at the frontlines. As the children of those that started this whole movement meant to unify Noxus and Ionia, Cerina and I inherited the responsibility of paving a way to make us treated as equals. Those opposed to such an idea did everything in their power to destroy any shred of hope of it ever becoming a reality.

Cerina was as pacifist as one can possibly be, but even so, she excelled in areas of intelligence and battlefield tactics. It was that sole fact that she was even allowed to attend such an institute, though she was still viewed as a critical example of Ionian weakness. That's why all those against us would come down harder on me, wishing to prove that I was just the same. We were twins, after all.

The scent of blood and sinew was thick in the air as I approached the gate. Headmaster Ronin and a company of the physical combat instructors were there waiting for me, and on the side, a row of upperclassmen stood at attention. Their faces were stone, but their eyes were eager to see bloodshed. I had seen that look many times before; the anticipation of a brutal skirmish for the sake of entertainment. Ronin's gaze, on the other hand, was impassible as he watched me approach with the stoic silence of someone who reveals no inkling of emotion.

"So you came," he said, not surprised, nor impressed.

I did not speak a word, knowing full well that they held no value in them. If there's anything a strong, silent type doesn't like, it's someone that knows how to be even quieter. I would not give any of them the satisfaction of so much as a single complaint, nor any word or phrase that they might throw back at me. The only way to get any point across was by action.

"You understand the stakes, do you not? As punishment for trespassing on school property after hours, engaging in unsanctioned physical conflict on the premises, and vandalizing an off-limits building, you are to fight in the arena until your worth has been…determined."

I nodded. Each word and meaning behind them was twisted with a double-standard, further splitting the divide that prejudice had created, rolling off the forked tongue of a serpent who wanted to see me fall.

"Proceed…and try not to be _too_ embarrassing," he finished saying before walking away.

It was an amusing notion. He wanted me to show that the Noxian half of me was worth something, yet fail to prove that the Ionian half was holding it back. Such is the mind of those that see no compromise. 'Elitists' would be the proper term for them, but in a city-state full of people that follow the same way of thinking, they were quite standard. The only difference was their level of power to oppress us.

I stepped forward, stopping just short of the two large doors that towered above me. They were rusty and stained over years of use, covered in marks from years past. One of the instructors approached, gruff and commanding like a drill sergeant.

"The rules are simple. You are not permitted to bring or use any weapons of any kind from beyond this point. The only acceptable means of armaments are in the environment. You may use whatever you find as you see fit." He pauses a moment to grab a pair of pugilist gauntlets.

As primal as this arena was, it's still an academy for young men and women. The gauntlets provide only minimal defense, primarily to prevent the fingers from being dismembered too easily, and the knuckles from receiving too much impact. It was mainly an item offered to the newcomers, and they had to earn the pride of victory to the point where they were not offered them, as a sign of acknowledgement. I silently rejected the gloves, not for the sake of bravado, but to make certain no one could contest my victory with outrageous claims of owing it to some sort of 'crutch'.

The instructor uncaringly tossed the gloves aside. He took a couple of steps closer to me, and I merely stared on ahead at the waiting gates. With a zealous yell, he shouted, "NO MERCY!"

"NO MERCY!" the row of upperclassmen echoed him in response.

Two words, simple and clear. A creed fitting for those that make sport of contending vicious beasts, hand-to-claw.

With a loud creek, the doors marked with foreboding scars opened, and I stepped through to face the first round of my punishment. What better way to try and break me by throwing me in a cage with a monster? This was not some ordinary course of disciplinary action…this was a death sentence.

The arena was clad in trees, like a dense forest with plants native to areas far from Noxus. No expense was spared in the making of this high-end academy, with mages employed to change the terrain between matches. Exotic beasts from all corners of Runeterra would be used in this event, and they were always given a home-field advantage.

It was a massive zone, making it a game of hunter versus hunted. Not only does one have to be strong to contend with what is set loose in the arena, but they have to be knowledgeable about their surroundings and the beasts that roam such lands. Everything felt authentic, from the texture of the grass to the very aromas of the blooming flowers. The spectator stands that ring around the entire area are the only things in sight that disillusioned the magically-formed environment.

This place is not quite as big as the Fleshing's arena, but it was quite a considerable size, considering the number of students that attend. Usually, the seats are full, but this day was a private event. Ronin and a number of school officials peered from the reserved section, each with a stern visage. Of course, the daring side of Cerina found a way up there, hiding out of sight of the others. She kept low, peeking through the space between a couple of seats in front of her. I refrained from glancing, as not to reveal her position. My mind was elsewhere at the time, anyway.

The doors creaked behind me, and with a loud clasp, locked tightly. All fell silent, and I was left with only the sound of leaves rustling in a spell-weaved wind. I took a deep breath, clearing my mind to focus on the battle that waited just steps away.

What creatures did they have in store for me? How many times would I have to do this? What kind of underhanded tricks would they prepare? Such questions, I would leave to Cerina to ponder. To me, they didn't matter. I had to win regardless of those factors.

As if on cue, a snarling shriek rung out from up ahead, the source hidden in the scattered thickets. Perhaps it got a hold of my scent in the wind. The forest began shaking with the movements of life, and I knew the hunt was on. At least it would save me the trouble of tracking it down myself.

With careful steps, and balled fists, I treaded inward. The anticipation of being stalked, and expecting an attack without warning at any given second, had sweat on my brow already. I was calm, given my sturdy discipline and familiarity with danger, but I could still hear my heartbeat. This was a new concept entirely, where only one of us would live to see the next day. It was either the beast or myself. No exceptions.

There was just one thing I liked about the arena, and only that sole factor… Man or beast, it didn't matter—from the moment we set foot inside, we were equals. However, there was still something that set us apart: I had a promise to keep…

In a short span of events, fate landed me in yet another way of life.

I had become a slayer.

 **~ - V -W- V - ~  
**  
 **~ - V -w-w- V - ~**

The wind breezes through his hair, and oceanic eyes open to a sea of blue sky. Shaking off his grogginess, he sits upright and looks below. There's not one hint of snow to be seen in the lush greenery on the ground, and the air lacks a wintery bite.

"Good, you're awake," Anivia greets.

"How long was I out?"

"Long enough, Young One. We are nearly there."

"Huh…so that's what real sleep is like," a remark on his constant travels.

"You should rest more."

"If only it were so easy."

"You must have a lot on your mind. Tell me, mercenary-knight…what do you fight for?"

"…People I believe in."

"An appropriate response, given such a title. However, what is it _you_ believe in?"

"Coming at me with the loaded questions, I see."

"One does not simply climb my peak without a dire enough reason. Besides…I did just fly halfway across Runeterra with you on my back."

"Well, you've got me there…but I don't think I can give you a simple answer to such a query."

"A convoluted life often brings peace to others through relevance."

"That's a rather cryptic thing to say."

"Perhaps no less cryptic than your motivation," a sage mind tries to peer into Ephrial's. "You joined the League, not for your own devices, but for someone else's. Before that, you journeyed to many cities and villages, lending your blade to causes that would not benefit you in any way. I have seen countless people fight on innumerable battlefields, but never have I seen someone fight with such fervor for causes that are not their own."

"So what is your appraisal of me, dare I ask?"

"You are searching for something. When I peered into your eyes to see if you were telling me the truth back in the Freljord, I saw a combination of things I have seen over many eons."

"Then you have seen nothing you have not before."

"On the contrary, it is the first. My past lifetimes may elude my memory…but the lessons acquired through them carry on. There are many things that can drive men to commit the bravest of sacrifices, or the most sinful atrocities. I have seen them all before. In you, I see the same fire that has consumed many…yet you do not succumb to it. Rather, you embrace it, letting it drive you to fight so that no one else has to feel such pain. Is that not correct?"

"…If you say so."

"However, you still desire something. Something you cannot have…yet will not give up on. A cycle of selflessness fueling an everlasting fire."

"We're here."

"Ah, the stubbornness of youth…" unsatisfied with his responses, or rather, lack thereof. "Hang on!"

Anivia takes a steep dive downward to the abandoned village of Kalamanda. The scars of massive devastation are hard to miss, and the icy avian scans the area in curiosity. Large cracks in the ground look as though this was the epicenter of a massive earthquake, and organic crystal litters the wreckage of old homes and mining equipment.

"It would appear I have underestimated your plight. What happened here?"

Ephrial gazes into the orb in his possession, his grip tightening with determination. "…Something I won't ever allow to happen again."

"A bold statement. Will you really be able to hold true to it, I wonder?" landing on the flat surface on the edge of town.

"I did not come this far not to," hopping off of her back, and landing on the dusty trail.

"You have fought so tirelessly for those you encounter, and overcome many challenges without hesitation for purposes outside of your own interest. My advice for you is this: When the time comes, let someone fight for _you_ for a change."

"Why do you host such an interest in my endeavors?"

"Every generation has its heroes. Many of them are born from scars of their pasts, but each of them, through sacrifice, leaves a mark on the world that lasts for generations beyond their own. It is a shame when such precious souls do not live to take part in the very peace they helped create. Not everyone can _hatch_ out a new life, after all."

"Very funny. I thank you for your much-needed assistance," the mercenary-knight gives her a slight, but respectful bow.

"You are welcome, Young One," returning the gesture by craning her neck. "I must depart quickly. Keep in mind the words I have spoken to you."

The cryophoenix swiftly takes to the air once again, riding the wind on a steadfast path back to the Freljord before it becomes a full-out warzone.

Ephrial begins walking into the ruins of Kalamanda, or what remains of it. Anivia's sage deductions will have to wait for another time. All that weighs on the swordsman's mind is what lies in front of him. The detour in his journey has been a trying one, pushing his endurance to the limit. However, what he has faced still pales in comparison to the colossal giant he is about to revive.

As he walks closer to the devastation, a patch of debris float in his path. He approaches, looking all around him at the scars left on the town from the scandal surrounding the mining expeditions. With a slight tap of his finger, he pushes a small, suspended gear out from in front of his face. It moves with a gentle twirl, as if moving in water.

"These lasting effects of that time magic are quite profound. I wonder what will happen when we recreate it… It can't be worse than what would happen if we don't," further steeling his resolve through reasoning.

He begins running to the heart of Kalamanda, a week's worth of feelings stirring within him. The past echoes with each step, eagerness and anticipation taking him faster. Fissures of sundered earth widen as he approaches, jumping over heaps of rubble and ash. A new sight that was not there previously comes into view. The promised device is positioned off to the side, overlooking the destruction from a close range.

"Ah, there you are. What took you so long? Was it that foul polar bear?" Zilean peeks out from behind the machine.

"It's a long story…but I suspect you already knew that."

"Is that your response? Hm…a very interesting timeline indeed. Let us get started, shall we? The orb, if you please."

Ephrial holds Avarosa's Eye up to himself. "Tell me, what is your stake in this, Chronokeeper?"

"Why ask questions to what you already know? I am quite aware you have done your research on me, as well as the other participants of the League. I trust you have already gathered my intentions of saving Urtistan."

"Yet this trip is only to go back a limit of one week, correct?"

"Yes, you are right. However, it is a necessary step in developing a way to go back further. It just so happens that we have a mutual benefit from this experiment."

"…You're worried about the results, so you're starting off small on purpose, aren't you?"

"Well, if you have gathered all the answers you seek of me already, then perhaps we should get this timeline back on track."

"Very well," Ephrial steps onto the platform with Zilean.

The creation of a collaborated design between Heimerdinger and the Chronokeeper stands about ten feet tall. It is an open platform with a beam of metal arching outward and back over them in a crescent shape, like that of a stand that spins a globe. On the front of the arc is a terminal that looks out of place, being freshly tinkered around with, and obviously improvised with some rough modifications. The brass-colored contraption looks far different than what it was once described during the time of the incident.

"Insert the orb, and we shall begin," he directs Ephrial to the terminal with a slot designed to receive a sphere.

The mercenary-knight steps forward and carefully inserts the relic. In response, the machine perks up, glowing and humming lively. With a series of clicks and whirring, parts of the terminal begin to twist, rotate, and slide as they adjust to the introduced object. Clockwork snapping into place, the orb now hovers in the middle of an open frame of metal rings around it. The halo over the orb begins spinning rapidly, and a swirling force begins enveloping the machine in a transparent barrier like that of a force field.

"Now for the tricky part…" Zilean floats over to the edge.

Raising his hands, he begins an indecipherable incantation. Magical runes of light blue begin forming around him, and the timepiece on his back begins ticking away in a counter-clockwise motion. The barrier around them adopts the cyan coloring of his magic, and a faint chanting from outside begins. As the seconds pass, the voices seem to overlay in perfect synchronization, creating an odd version of a melodious echo.

"What is that?"

"Do you remember the many summoners that were required to quell the Noxian and Demacian conflict here? That sound is them, only repeated a few dozen times."

"Repeated?"

"Think of it as taking a step back in time…and then moving sideways."

"…A parallel timeline?"

"Precisely! I am merely borrowing the same summoners from the same point in time as they are all performing the necessary spell, only from alternate realities."

"Alternate realities, huh? Who knew fate could have so many plans at once."

"The rest is up to you, Blazing Swordsman. Gently turn the orb counter-clockwise to move back in time."

Ephrial looks back to the device. An odd feeling of empowerment washes over him as he slowly takes the orb in his grip. Time is quite literally in his hand now, and with it, the ability to challenge fate itself. A heavy responsibility gingerly begins rotating the relic, and their surroundings begin to shift.

Morning turns to night, and night to day, as the sun rises and falls backwardly. Debris and leaves that have succumbed to gravity now take back to the air and their former positions. Freshly bloomed flowers now retreat back to their buds, and migrating birds overhead fly back to their original roosts. Everything that has been done is being undone right before their very eyes.

As he begins getting a feel for it, Ephrial speeds up to pass the remaining days to the desired point. There it is…the moment he departed to find a way to fix this tragedy. From a different perspective, he sees the battle take place in reverse. Watching himself, like in a dream, he slows down and takes it all in. The familiar feeling of an overwhelming skirmish floods back to him as the flames that disintegrated the surrounding area come to life again.

"Be very careful. Going forward in time is not as simple as going back. Treat this as a one-way trip only, and think cautiously about what position in time you wish to start over from."

Ephrial hears his warning, but does not shift his gaze from the scene. He scrutinizes every detail that he can, looking for a way to turn the outcome. With great care, he approaches the time of the blast that derailed his self-imposed mission. Though sound does not carry through the barrier, he can hear the echo of his own voice shouting the Exile's name after the explosion. It is a hard scene to swallow, but Ephrial forces himself through it, taking it all in. There has to be something… A moment of weakness, some sort of vulnerability. Just what can stop an attack to immensely powerful…?

A glint of offset light catches his eye, and Ephrial snaps the scene to a halt. At the very end of the beam's track, just before it erupts, the straight line bends out of shape in a sharp direction. It is faint, but the interference is definitely there, at the far wall of rock. Just what is on that cliff that could deter something like that?

 _"_ _Wait…Kalamanda was rich in precious stones. That's it…!"_

With extreme focus, the swordsman follows the beam of light as it comes back to its starting position. He measures the angles it was fired from and impacts on. His free hand clenches with the determination of enacting a plan not sure to succeed, but stands as his best option.

Slowly, he resumes backtracking the flow of time, and arrives at the point where Riven is struggling with what he can only assume to be post-traumatic stress disorder. While her history is not exactly a well-kept secret, her personal account and what it means to her remains all to herself. Only speculation floats around the elusive and reclusive Exile that refrains from talking about her past. Even so, Ephrial cannot help but believe it is an essential piece of why he fights for her. For right now, however, he can only dive into one past at a time.

"I'll stop here," the mercenary freezes the scene again.

"An interesting choice. Are you sure?"

"There is no room for any uncertainty."

"I knew you were going to say that! Very well."

"I'm not going to run into myself, am I?"

Zilean chuckles, "No, it doesn't quite work that way. You will inherit the same place you did before, kind of like a replacement."

"Time and space are funny things. Though, that brings another point to mind… What of your home, Urtistan? Are you going to go further back in time after I get out?"

"Not quite. This version of me and this device will most likely disappear for a while."

"…Disappear?"

"Oh, I won't trouble you with the details you would not understand anyway. Just think of it as a big reset button on Runeterra…that only goes back until now. Well, not now… _then_ ," gesturing at the time outside of the barrier. "Time displacement doesn't quite affect me the same as it does others."

"Wait…this is effecting **all** of Runeterra?"

"Well, yes, of course. We're using quite a lot of amplification with all the summoners we're borrowing. Didn't I mention that this would be the case?"

"No. In fact, you're far more lucid now than when we spoke last."

"Yes, my condition can make it quite difficult to convey a single track of thought."

"This changes things a considerable amount… I can't simply take back all that I did in the Freljord. Especially after Braum and Anivia helped me out," a new weight added to his conscience.

"Then don't. What happens from this point on is purely up to you. Not everyone gets a second chance. I mean, I do, but not everyone does."

Ephrial takes a deep breath, sorting himself out. "All right…one thing at a time…"

"Simply step out of the barrier when you are ready. Oh, and if you see me around when you get back, be sure to tell me not to have the spicy raptor wings. I'll know what it means."

"Well, I suppose this is where we part ways. Thank you."

"Though I may vanish for a while, it is inevitable that I will be back….and I may call upon you to help me as I have aided you," Zilean finishes his thoughts.

"Then I shall answer that call…if there is still _time_."

A smirk quickly fades away as fast as it appeared, and the knight steps through the swirling barrier of magic. He feels as though he is floating to his already-present body, and in a blink, he resumes the sprint towards a frozen Riven. Everything is slow, taking a gradual acceleration to a normal pace. Like that fuzzy, slow-motion effect in a vivid dream just before one wakes up, Ephrial's thoughts are speeding far faster than time around him. Using that to his advantage, he prepares for a firm course of action.

 _"_ _Just hang in there, Riven… I won't let you down this time!"_

The sound of his own heartbeat gradually becomes swallowed in the sounds of battle as everything begins resuming as normal. With cerulean eyes burning with the fervor is known to display in battle, he charges toward the Exile. Instead of tackling her out of the way this time, he uses the momentum to follow through with his blade.

Razorlike crystals rain from above, and with fiery strikes, Ephrial parries them into smaller, harmless shards in front of Riven. The scattering mess catches her attention, retrieving her from a playback of the past in her mind. In front of her, she sees a tattered brown cape draped over the gilded red armor of her partner.

Without taking his immensely determined face off of Goliath, Ephrial reaches for a shard stuck by his right shoulder, caught between the plates, and pulls the object out. With unflinching resolve, he crushes it in his grip, letting the blood-stained pieces fall to the floor in defiance. The mercenary-knight has traveled too far and for too long to let something like this stop him. He has beaten this creature before, and his spirit roars out to do it again, but this time, without casualty.

The bright display of heat and light maintains the Crystal Scour's attention, and a tell-tell sign of hesitation caused by confusion leads the monster to let out another barrage of lethal projectiles.

No running…not this time. As overpowering as this foe is, Ephrial refuses to let it control the direction of the battle. With the Noxian principles inside of him, he summons the strength to take the shortest path to victory, straight through the enemy. Controlled focus of his Ionian half guides his passion-fueled blade with clarity and precision.

"Give me all you've got!" the flames on his ardent blade dance and swirl lively.

Ephrial slashes his sword outward, shattering a handful of sharp missiles. Another follow-up, and another, begins a chain of counter-attacks. A moderate pace accelerates swiftly, blazing strikes rapidly ramping up to cut a clearing in the cloud of a hellish hail. Direct contact with his blade gradually ceases as streaks of flame shoot outward, creating a widening gap of an inferno. Both assaults come to a halt, and a sea of razors jut out of the ground, leaving only a small clear space where the two unlikely partners remain.

The out-of-control guardian lets out an enraged, screeching roar, and raises its two head-like claws and dragon-esque tail. Ephrial's gaze sharpens with familiarity and focus. This was the same attack it had performed before obliterating the terrain almost entirely.

A sweep of the massive tail sends Ephrial and half of the others in the fight flying back. Already expecting it, the agile swordsman turns a harsh impact into a backflip with his free hand. He plants his sword firmly into the ground, bracing himself for the powerful shockwave that follows. The two beast-like arms slam downward, and narrow stalagmites shoot out from the ground. A thunderous quake with unpredictable attacks from below cause the group of champions to scatter like before.

There it is! The dark red glow of a charging power with devastating potential. It's just like before… Everyone is divided and exhausted, gazing at the mysterious glow they are seeing for the first time once again.

Except it is **not** like before. Ephrial rises to his feet, remaining in the blast zone, unlike the previous event. Electricity begins arcing around the sphere of building energy, sparking more and more violently as it arrives to its maximum charge.

"I need to borrow this," the swordsman rushes past a collapsed Taric, grabbing his shield on the way.

This is it. One last chance to fix what has been broken…to take back something that fate has stolen. With no room for error, Ephrial stands at the designated spot he had measured earlier. The very point in which the beam of energy first touched the ground to unleash a cataclysmic blast. He primes the shield in front of himself, bracing it tightly for what is to come. With unflinching eyes and unwavering resolve, he faces the all-or-nothing gamble head on.

The red and black energy spouts from Goliath's mouth like a very narrow laser, colliding with the large gem crested in the middle of Taric's shield. Ephrial hangs on as the force of impact slides him backward across the ground, tearing up the earth beneath his boots. Without hesitation, he tilts the shield backward, and the beam of light bends backward toward the colossal enemy. As swift as the previous strike had been, the laser arcs from the guardian's belly, upwards and back to its mouth. Upon the attack contacting its own source, a massive explosion rings out. Instead of the ground erupting like before, the company of League champions are pushed backwards rather than engulfed in its wake.

The pillars of skewering crystal that litter the ground shatter into pieces with the resulting blast. A large cloud of dust and dirt tosses up like a volcanic eruption, concealing the result everyone is struggling to see as they shake themselves off.

Careful attention to detail has successfully reflected the creature's cataclysmic attack onto itself. An anxious silence washes over the battlefield, waiting to see the results with their own eyes.

"Is…is it over?" the Piltie explorer huffs.

A wounded Skarner feels the vibrations of the earth below his feet. "He is…"

As if in response, that haunting shriek of their massive foe pieces the air, and even clears out the shroud of dust around himself. The Crystal Scour sways back and forth slightly, dazed by the effects of its own attack, but still swelling with furious might.

"Zis is hopeless," the signature accent of Fiora musters, as she leans on her rapier.

"At least we could contest Baron Nashor," Jax remarks.

The wounded ego of two of the League's most prideful members reaches the others, causing a wave of somber expressions.

Ephrial tosses the shield, glowing orange with heat from the attack, to the side. He stares into the transparent shell of the tremendous crystal guardian. Small cracks spider along the plates, spreading around the length of its frame. The blast has done some major damage to the armor's integrity, but it's not enough.

The feeling of failure hits Ephrial like a tidal wave, and he can feel the hope he had been preserving begin to drown once more. His heart beats heavily with the weight of both the past and future. Was it all for nothing? Does it really end like this? Does nothing I do matter…?

A phantom burn ignites along the scar on his cheek, and words of a promise echo through the darkness. The grip around the sword's hilt tightens with the unique zeal of serenity infused with fury. His blade begins to burn with an extremity only matched by the fire in his eyes.

Blazing with passion, he charges forth, running and leaping between parts of a severely broken terrain with great speed and agility. The intense flames on his blade brightly trail along his movements. A leap off a rock, and Ephrial brings forth a fiery maelstrom of attacks against the base of Goliath.

 **"** **I didn't come all this way just to surrender…!"**

The steaks and trails of his sword begin to hold their place along the impacts, floating like a fiery echo of an attack, waiting to be finished. Small chips and scratches of crystal skip across the blade's path as it scrapes by.

 **"…** **I've lost enough people already…!"** his voice almost appears to overlay itself, just like in the Freljord.

Rapidly heightening fervor accelerates his strikes, fierce and gracefully precise form alternating between one and two-handed slashes. Another slice, another suspending streak of flame, each adding onto a three-dimensional canvas of varying sizes and depths.

 **"…** **You won't take her away, too…! Not this time!"**

The flurry of lightning-fast strikes comes to a halt, and Ephrial adopts a very well-grounded stance. His longsword surges with power, almost pulsating like a heartbeat racing with intense avidity. Raising it above his head, its flickering becomes so rapid that it's almost as if the very blade itself has been replaced by a larger one of pure flame.

 ** _"_** ** _I WON'T ALLOW YOU!"_**

Reaching a new level of strength within himself, the Blazing Swordsman crashes his blade upon the colossal target. What would normally be the equivalent of a knife cleaving a large building, a fiery ignition sets off a chain reaction. The hovering streaks of burning desire erupt into an immense blast, and the resulting explosion covers the scene. Raging flames engulf the majority of Goliath's frame, enveloping him in an enormous burst of superlative willpower. The heated barrier that protects Ephrial becomes more apparent as the tossing debris and smoke collide against it, keeping him unharmed in the middle of the massive temperature shift exerted by his own attack.

Only the faint orange glow of that shield peeks visibly through the obstructing smokescreen, like a sunset amidst a whirling storm of sand and darkness. All of the witnessing combatants watch as the dust quickly settles, anxious to see the outcome of such a sudden assault. The smoke clears around the Blazing Swordsman, revealing the panting warrior maintain a glare of determination, waiting for some sign of effectiveness. With hopeful eagerness and curiosity, the champions of the League wearily stand back up, each looking intently at the Crystal Scour.

"Did that do it…!?" Ryze gazes.

Skarner hobbles forward a few steps, "His shell…it's…!"

Goliath's transparent plates quickly frost over with cracks as they swiftly rise and spread throughout his entire body. The massive head reels slower and slower until it appears as if he has frozen over, halting all movements. A few breaths pass, and like a sudden shattering of glass by soundwave, the monster screams in unbridled vexation. Shards of its broken exoskeleton glitter in diminutive pieces, reflecting sparkling glints of light in wake of the sun's rays. The near-indestructible armor of the incredible beast is no more, and the dark blue and purple flesh lies exposed. Like a serpent that has lost all of its scales, the ancient creature lashes out in wrathful pain.

With a renewed take on the battle, the surrounding legends take their arms back up. The overpowering guardian is now vulnerable to attack, and a window of victory opens widely. A second wind waves over them, and their spirits ignite with a new vigor. They glance at each other, a silent acknowledgment and agreement to pool their efforts together as a team. The differences between them take a backseat to the seriousness at hand. Being brought to the brink of defeat and death brings them closer, and they ready themselves for an all-or-nothing dive. Unlike the normal battles that have taken place in the Crystal Scar, what dies here, stays dead. No respawns, and no more rematches.

With fierce fervor in his voice, Ephrial calls out to the others.

 **"** **LET'S FINISH THIS!"**

Legendary figures spring into action, bearing their signature weapons and prowess. Maokai and Malphite each contend with one of Goliath's head-like arms, restraining the weakened limbs to grand the others an opening. With a stylish grace, Taric smashes his hammer into the sawhead tendrils as they spring forth, crushing through their damaged crystal plating.

"You are nothing more than glass!"

Alistar stampedes beside him, pulverizing anything that resembles the crystalline form of the mountainous foe. His wild rampage creates a clearing for the others to fight on, bulldozing anything dark purple and moving.

Skarner races behind his former Vanguard general. "Now I've got you!"

A paralyzing sting asserts itself on Goliath's tail, freezing it in an arch as he wrestles to keep it still. The crystal scorpion plants his feet and claws into the ground, buying an opportunity for a follow-up. Nidalee rushes forth, changing into a cougar in mid-leap. She pounces on the restrained appendage, clawing her way upward to gain altitude as she runs along its length.

"Over here, Ugly!" the Prodigal Explorer calls out.

Ezreal disappears and reappears, blinking from place to place between each volley of magic bolts, avoiding the piercing hail of razors raining down upon him in response.

With Goliath distracted, Blitzcrank picks up a large spike leftover from a broken crystal stalagmite. The golem fires his arm with calculated precision, and rockets the oversized splinter into the neck of the gargantuan. Feline agility at work, the Bestial Huntress leaps off of the Crystal Scour's tail on all fours, and lands bipedal on the newly-improvised platform created by her steam-powered ally. Nimble steps bounce from one footing to another as Blitzcrank launches additional spikes, creating a stairway to the top of Goliath's head.

Keeping her balance on the twisting and writhing head of her prey, the skilled feline makes her way across to the front. A brave leap, and she turns herself around in midair, her spear priming to strike as if pouncing off a tree limb. She plants her weapon in one of the deranged, citrine eyes of the colossus, hanging on as Goliath reels and wails in agony.

In a defensive struggle, the Crystal giant calls forth a perimeter of sharp spires. It starts out as a ring around itself, like a wall, and smaller spikes begin shooting out towards the group.

Ryze clears a path, charging a ball of arcane magic, and launches it into a nearby protrusion. The sphere bounces from stalagmite to stalagmite, obliterating them into nothingness, and dissolving the rapidly forming sea of barbs. The bolt makes its way to the barrier of crystal spires, and decimates it with a massive blast of crackling energy. Jax wisps through, deftly avoiding the piecing skewers sprouting by his feet. With a mighty leap, he descends upon the lion-like head of Goliath's arm, crashing his lamppost down on it like a meteor. Repeating strikes pummel away, eating away at the vitality of the restrained limb, and deforming its shape with each blow.

Fiora bolts for the other beastlike appendage, grace and poise in her footsteps as well as her blade. Like a deadly waltz, she dances around what can be called the 'neck' of the fang-bearing jaws that form the Vanguard's hand. Each strike wears away the struggling limb, cutting deeper and deeper still. With Maokai's anger stretching the arm taught, one last flash of the Grand Duelist's blade dismembers it completely.

Twinging pain around its body causes Goliath to release a deafening roar. Nidalee expertly makes her way down to the ground safely, landing on her feet, bloodied spear in hand. The group rallies together, turning their efforts to the abdomen of their titanic foe.

Ephrial steps toward the Exile, who has remained behind, caught in a trance between the past and present. Frustration strews across her face, and the grip on her massive blade shakes.

"Riven. Riven…!" he attempts to break her out of her thousand-yard stare.

Through sounds of clamor and thunderous roars, the serene side of a fiery fervor shows itself, and she hears his words reaching her like a warm breeze. For a brief moment, the smoldering ambience of battles around her dissolves into a muffled silence. Cerulean blue and reddish-brown eyes reach through walls of time and regret.

"C'mon…this isn't like you. I don't know what you've been facing alone, but I'm with you now. Are you with me…?" Ephrial extends a hand.

A river of varying emotions, the former Noxian soldier hesitantly creeps her hand towards his. With a solid clasp, the partnership between them reaffirms itself with a steady pull back to reality, and the mercenary-knight welcomes her back as one warrior to another.

 **"** **Show me the resolve I've come to believe in, Riven!"**

She snaps back, the grip on her sword tightening with the heat of the battle. The two turn their gaze back to the monstrous tower among them. Without any more limbs to defend itself with, the ancient Vanguard begins preparing the only viable option it has left. Dark red and black energy begins to swirl in its throat again, gathering its remaining strength to perform a catastrophic attack.

"All at once!" the raspy voice of Ryze calls those with ranged attacks by his side.

Together, a blast of runic energy, a magical spear, and a barrage of arcane bolts blast away at the belly of the beast. Taric and Maokai add their own bursts to the attack, priming the finishing touches of a softened spot for Malphite to charge himself into. Like an unstoppable rocket, the Shard of the Monolith cannonballs at full-force, landing a critical blow.

Upon the massive impact, Goliath lurches forward and collapses along the ground. The gargantuan serpentine head crashes in front of the enchanted blades, mouth hinged wide open with the flickering lights of an attack, still enduring its charging phase.

Seizing the opportunity, the Blazing Swordsman and Exile dash forward, straight into the jaws of the enemy. They erupt into a whirlwind of sharp strikes, slashing away at all sides and angles of the ancient Vanguard's mouth from the inside. Crystalline fangs shatter and dark purple flesh tears, causing the wailing beast to jolt back upright and violently writhe in pain, taking the two up with him.

Red and green blurs continue to dance wildly around each other, and the arcing electricity around them heralds the launch of Goliath's most devastating weapon. Refusing to flinch at the amount of time they have left, the two relentlessly cover the inside of the serpent's mouth with grievous gashes and wounds.

The beast begins to twitch and gurgle at the assault, unable to close its jaws on the swordsmen at the risk of its attack backfiring. Incapable of withstanding any further punishment, something within the throat of the serpentine Vanguard ruptures, and the dark sphere of energy becomes unstable.

Taking that as their cue to withdraw, Riven and Ephrial leap out of the ravaged fangs of their enemy. An explosion from the dark globe disintegrates the neck and head entirely, and the two begin to race down Goliath's winding body. Swift blades take turns covering each other from the hailstorm of burning remains and crystal razors from the creature's internal workings. Their deft footwork has them switching and alternating paths around each other, avoiding the loss of their balance as they shield each other from the falling hazards.

They safely join the rest on the ground, and a tremor ripples underneath their feet as the Crystal Scour's frame crashes into the ground behind them. A wave of wind and dust washes over the group with the impact, and thunderous echo of the collision fades into a victorious silence.

"Is…is it finally over?" Ezreal questions with uncertainty.

Skarner droops down with a guilty conscience. "This should have never happened…"

"Just what other so-called 'allies' do you have underground, Skarner!?" Ryze growls.

"The others…! I must go!" the Crystal Vanguard scuttles back to the mines he had first emerged from.

He opens his book, ready for a snaring spell "Not so fast, you—!"

"Let him. It would be best if he sees that no more of his kind rises to the surface for the time being. Their confusion would only incite more chaos," Ephrial intervenes.

"You seem rather suspect yourself, Blazing Swordsman! You didn't look the slightest bit surprised when that thing shot a laser at you."

"It's true. You did seem to know what you were doing," Taric chimes in, gesturing with his reclaimed shield.

"Call it a lucky guess. All that matters now is the current threat has been eliminated, but the real danger remains unknown."

"He's right," Ezreal agrees. "We've all been lead here to be slaughtered. Whoever is responsible for this will be looking to see what has become of their pet."

"Someone care to fill the rest of us in on what's happening?" the Grandmaster states his confusion.

"Right…not everyone was present at the Institute when it was attacked. Most of the League's champions that were got teleported away," Ephrial recalls Summoner Ricky's words.

"The _Institute_ was attacked? Are you sure you're talking about the Institute of War, Newbie?"

"Who would be foolish enough to do such a thing?" the gem-studded champion adds.

"Someone who knows their stuff," Ryze responds. "To be able to turn the League's collection of nexuses against itself is no simple feat."

"How did they manage to do that?" the explorer questions.

"How and why are questions we have yet to come close to answering." Ephrial crosses his arms in thought. "The short of it is that they have done exactly as Ryze has described, turning those one-track-minded minions we're all familiar with into a real threat. Even the Master Nexus, despite our efforts, became a tool to simultaneously disperse us."

"You said 'most got teleported away'…but Ryze, Maokai, and Malphite all came here straight from the Institute. Why were they not affected?"

Ryze hypothesizes, stroking his beard. "The chambers used to conduct research and experiments are covered in mass amounts of negatron, in order to prevent magic of a more…volatile nature from escaping. It's likely it prevented that wave of magic from coming in."

"I was meditating. The caverns outside of the Institute are…peaceful," the introspective Shard of the Monolith says with reminiscence of his home.

"While you were all enjoying your freedom, I was caged in the summoners' dungeons," Maokai growls. "That fire spirit never shuts up! Day and night about 'cleansing the world'!"

 _"_ _Brand…? It makes sense that the prisons would be protected from such effects, but the creatures we fought at the Master Nexus were running amok. Did someone let them out on purpose?"_ Ephrial ponders.

"Whatever's going on, they clearly don't want us to be at the Institute," Ryze surmises.

"Yet, they are still calling us out to places like this, even when some of us don't have a clue about what's going on," Ezreal adds on.

"Why us?" the Gem Knight asks the question on everyone's mind.

"They probably wanted to knock the biggest threats out first," Jax answers cockily, resting his arms over the lamppost behind his neck like a scarecrow.

"I think it's a fair assumption to say that everyone in the League that poses a threat to their operation is a target. At the very least, they must want us out of the way until they accomplish their goals," Ephrial considers all the information he's gathered.

Ryze, vexed at being sent by the Institute's request. "The Summoners are not to be trusted."

Malphite leans in with curiosity, "Then who is watching over the Institute?"

"It's…a convoluted situation. There are summoners we can trust, and summoners we can't. With all that has been happening, we simply can't decipher sides right now," Ephrial states an unfortunate fact.

"Mages ruin everything…!" Maokai's anger flares.

"I resent that, coming from something that blows up his own friends," Ryze glares.

"So, what do you propose, then?" Taric asks.

Ephrial takes a moment to ponder a plan. "…They are counting on us to have perished here, but the only ones they expect to arrive for certain are Ryze, Malphite, and Maokai, each having been sent here directly. For the sake of obtaining the element of surprise, I would say it's best if you three play dead for a while. Lay low and gather all the information you can until we know who we're up against."

"With the massive energy surges that have taken place here, they will be curious to investigate the results of their little trap," Ryze points out.

"Exactly. With Goliath down, there will be no more energy readings as such, possibly leading them to send a few scouts here to find out what happened."

"I get it… Force them to make a move, and grab their messengers while they're out of their hiding hole!" Piltover's explorer hammers a fist into an open hand.

"What about the rest of us?" Alistar joins in, slightly more level-headed after expending energy in the battle. "I don't want to stand around and **_wait_** to bash some skulls in!"

Fiora slashes her rapier through the air, "I agree. Zis insult to my honor will not stand!"

"We'll have to divide up into teams. It's imperative that we spread the word on the status of the Institute, but without inciting chaos. There's no doubt that some form of cover-up is being broadcasted for the lack of League matches," the mercenary-knight works on a strategy. "Ryze, Taric, and Jax would probably be best at that, being as well-traveled as they are. We also need more presence in the Institute itself. They clearly do not want us around while they finish with whatever they are up to."

"That won't be easy. The Institute was just starting to go on lockdown when they dispatched me here," the archmage states. "No one in, and no one out, unless they have strict authority given by someone really high up on their payroll."

"Surely the ones working so hard to investigate this whole matter won't refuse the aid of noble warriors to bolster their efforts," he gives them a foot in the door to use.

"And what exactly do we do in there if they are just going to lock us down, too?" Alistar inquires.

The mercenary-knight thinks back to his last trip to the League. Ricky and the majority of the lower class summoners are currently being held under curfew. Lack of necessary information makes it difficult to discern what moves to make, but action must be taken swiftly at this point.

"Your presence may be enough to make our mystery assailants uneasy and more cautious. Whatever time that might buy in our favor, use it to form a coup of summoners that are aligned with us. We'll need their help if we are to accomplish anything."

"What if they find out?" Alistar snorts in doubt of such a patient plan.

"Then do what you did in your last prison break. Start a riot."

The minotaur finally hears a piece of the plan he likes, and laughs while slamming his fist into his palm with eager anticipation.

"I think you, Fiora, and Nidalee should handle that front."

A raspy blue mage tosses his hands up in the air complacently. "Oh, sure. Pick the most inconspicuous ones. The cat, the bull, and the whiny fencer walk into the Institute. Sounds like the setup of a bad joke!"

"How dare you!" the Grand Duelist snaps at him.

"Why not? Alistar is an award-winning humanitarian, so his interest in the Institute's well-being is not out of place. Fiora is always looking for a challenge, so where better to start searching for it than the League, especially after such a daring attack. Last, but not least, Nidalee is big fan-favorite of the summoners, so I'm sure they'll gladly let her in, and she can pry for information quite easily."

The Bestial Huntress leans on her spear, raising an eyebrow at Ephrial's assertions.

"Oh, don't bother with that look. We've all seen how you dance!" Ryze jabs.

The shapeshifting woman lets out a hiss at him.

"I'll head back to Piltover! Maybe my grandfather has some insight on how they tampered with the nexuses," Ezreal volunteers.

"Actually, I was hoping you would head to Demacia," the mercenary-knight suggests.

"What? Why?"

"Your direct connection to the Crownguard family may help us gather some forces together. Preferably with the utmost discretion. We don't want to cause a panic or suspicion with a large army, not to mention Demacia could be unwittingly host to the same corruption as the League. The quieter we make our moves, the better."

Flustered, "C-connection with the Crowngaurds? Me?"

The others give him a straight-faced look.

"All of us know about your little fling with Luxanna, kid," Jax says directly.

"Oh…Demacia it is, then."

"Blitzcrank, Malphite, and Maokai would be best to stay here for those aforementioned scouts," Ephrial divides the last team. "You guys are a bit too big to blend in with a crowd, but big enough to scare some information out of whoever is sent here to check on their giant crystal hydra. Not to mention, you may camouflage rather well here, with all the boulders, trees, and bushes in the area."

"What iz it _you_ intend to do, and why should I take orders from a peasant!?" Fiora lashes.

"That's a good point…why should we trust you, Newcomer? You've barely been in the League, and you act as if you know what you're talking about," Ryze glares.

"A fair set of questions. I've no reason for any of you to give me your personal trust. However, I am willing to trust each of you. Whether you take my word for it or not, I still believe you will take the right course of action."

"A bold statement…but you would not be the first to cover deception with noble words. You don't even know us! Who's to say none of us will stab **you** when your back is turned!?"

"If any of us wanted the others dead, our fight with this 'Crystal Scour' afforded more than enough opportunities. However, we all still stand. If you are asking me if I can trust you in particular…I would say that the purpose of you carrying that scroll around your back is more than enough proof. It makes it known that you possess the understanding and caution for destructive potential of any kind. You respect magic too much to be a part of attacking the Institute."

"Erk—! Fine! Do as you wish…" Ryze trails off in mumbling.

"You still haven't told us where you'll be going," Ezreal points out.

"I'll be heading to Piltover. Perhaps I can find a lead there."

"What? Why would _you_ go to Piltover, and **I** head to Demacia!?" suspicion arises.

"As I've said, you're the one that possesses a connection there. I have none. With all that has transpired, it won't surprise me that Noxus will be the prime suspect. Perhaps they are even right to think such. Considering the history Demacia has with Noxus, they would not be likely to believe me. I would just receive the same stare I am getting from you, only multiplied."

"You don't seem very confident in your reputation, Blazing Swordsman," Jax remarks.

"There hasn't been a place, so far, that I have been to where people have not counted me as just another bloodthirsty Noxian. Of course, who's to blame them? The innumerable misdeeds of the city-state carry throughout generations, far more than whatever handful of years of reputation I may hold."

"I have heard enough!" the fencer chimes back in. "If zis will grant me the opportunity to prove that I am ze best, zen I will play along…on one condition! Zis insolent whelp must relinquish the title of 'Grandmaster' to me!"

"Over my dead body," Jax glares at her.

"Zat can be arranged," accepting the challenge.

"Enough of this bickering!" the Twisted Treant shouts. "If I will at last be returned to my home, then I shall cooperate…for now," reluctantly agreeing to the plan, mostly for the opportunity to crush a few summoners.

"It would seem we have no choice but to agree on this alliance. Are we all in accordance?" Taric's mellow voice evens out the tone of the group.

With exchanging looks and silent nods, the company of unlikely allies from various regions acquiesce. Each holds their reservations to themselves, faced with a common enemy yet to be revealed.

Ephrial turns around to walk in the Exile's direction, leaving the others to finish collaborating and disperse. Riven, with a somber expression, sits atop a large, flat rock amidst the torn ground. She notices him and quickly rises, her visage hardening again.

"…Are you okay…?" the mercenary-knight asks, still concerned with her episode of PTSD.

She glances away, averting her eyes to the same question that made her hesitate once, long ago. "What's the plan now?" diverting the inquiry.

A pause takes the air between them, and Riven looks back due to a lack of a response. With the adrenaline rush wearing off, Ephrial can't help but stare at her with the frozen expression of having seen a ghost.

"…What's with that look?" the Exile fidgets slightly with unsettlement.

"…I—… A-apologies. It's just been…a very long week. I'm glad to see you're okay."

"We don't have time to waste. Let's head back to the Institute."

"Change of plans. I think we have a better chance of finding progress in Piltover."

"Why Piltover?"

Ephrial pulls out a fried piece of flat equipment with wires and metal pieces running along it. "This fell out of Goliath's head shortly before we finished him off. It has Hextech written all over it," turning the frazzled circuit board over to give her a full view.

"Don't you think this might be more of Zaun's handiwork?"

"I do, especially after those barrels of waste we found before. However, if we're to gather any information on such a device, we'll have to find it in a less…hostile area. I'm thinking Heimerdinger might be just the yordle to help us."

"That's a far journey…and the Institute is right along the way."

"It may be best to avoid going there. A few of the others will be working on the inside, and it might work better in our favor if you and I stayed off the League's radar for a little while."

The mercenary-knight thinks carefully, a heavy responsibility weighing down on him. Having succeeded in rewriting a portion of history, the last thing he wishes to do is let Riven out of his sight. However, he has witnessed a glimpse of the threat that lies in the North, and cannot simply ignore it. As he has learned before, time is a very delicate thing, and he does not take this second chance lightly.

"Snap out of it, already!" Riven calls him out of a daze.

"Sorry. I'm just…thinking."

"You look terrible."

"What?"

Both examine the scratches and marks done to Ephrial's armor and body. The damage he had sustained in the Freljord appear to have carried over the trip through time. This must be what Zilean must have meant when he described it as a "replacement." He has taken the very spot of his past self, carrying with him the memories as well as the physical effects of his journey.

"I see… Heh. Like I said, it's been a _very_ long week."

"…So long as you don't slow me down," a warrior's pride in the Noxian way shows itself.

"I'll try not to," humoring her with a smirk.

Ephrial's thought on his journey to the Freljord begins to conclude itself with the idea that, with the knowledge of what to expect, he can recreate the series of events just as they were. Perhaps with less injury, at the least… In order to prevent changing up the rest of the timeline too much, he will have to be a precise with his words and actions. Braum needs to learn of the Watchers, and Anivia can deliver Avarosa's Eye to Ashe, both as a morale boost to her army and to keep it out of Lissandra's clutches. It's a feeling of doing the right thing that compels him, keeping intact the selflessness that has earned him the 'knight' portion of his title. His newfound allies to the North aided him in making things right. The least he can do is return the favor, even if they don't know it.

It will be a challenging stretch, but with a rune tablet set to go to Piltover, he can meet Riven there in the same time it would take her to travel there on foot.

"Actually…" he goes somber. "Do you know the safest route through the Ironspike Mountains?"

"The 'safest' route?" almost taking insult to the question.

"Well, with all the journeying you've done, I'm more than sure you know you're way around. Just…stick to the safest paths, alright?"

"What are you talking about? Are you not coming, too?" curious at his behavior.

"I have…errands I need to see to first."

"What kind of—"

"It's complicated. I can't explain it right now… In fact, if I am going to make it on time, I have to leave very shortly," looking at the sun's position over them.

"First you want to tag along, and now you want to leave without explaining?"

"I wish I could, but…that's a story for _another time_. Just…trust me."

Riven falls silent. He has given her no reason to doubt him, and every reason to believe in him. The fiery image of the mercenary-knight standing in front of her, blazing away a sea of deadly, over-sized needles comes to mind. Somewhere lost in time, between flashbacks and that moment, she could swear she saw him slashing away the barrage of toxic chemicals on that fateful day in Ionia, so long ago.

"…I will meet you at Piltover. You still owe me an explanation when we get there," she looks at him with resolve.

"Deal," he replies with a grin.

Without further words, he departs from her, both honor-bound by the word of one warrior to another. The sinking feeling of worry and guilt washes over Ephrial with every step, taking a huge gamble against the very fate he had just opposed. Still, even though he must repeat a journey through a frozen hell and back, it would still be for her in the end. Why is that…? Braum had asked him if she was important to him—a fair question considering the lengths taken during that trek. With a predictable revisit to the Institute and Freljord, he has plenty of time now to dwell on it.

 _"…_ _Don't die, Riven…"_

 **w-W-w**

 **w**

 **Author's note: So...that took a while to type up! A really harsh work schedule didn't make it easy either. But with over 10k words, I hope I made your wait worth it. That's like the size of 2-3 chapters, so that makes us even, right? Also, Riven is back!**

 **Please let me know what you think with a comment. Favorites/follows/etc. are also very much appreciated!**


	26. Chapter 26: A Riven Path

**-  
Chapter 26**

 ** _A Riven Path_**

 _"_ _Why…? Why did I hesitate back there? Absolutely inexcusable…"_

The pondering Exile reflects on herself with a sense of shame. Questions race through her mind as she puts one foot in front of the other, traveling North. Large rows of the peaks that belong to the Ironspike mountains flood the horizon far ahead.

Like a whisper, a slight breeze caresses the viridian grass of the expansive rolling hills. A spear-headed eagle cries out from above, passing through the open sky. Nature's calmness dwells in every corner of the ambience.

However, Riven is far from peaceful, as old wounds have opened anew. Her days in the Ionian Campaign follow her wherever she goes. A grim gaze stares on ahead as the images of the past play before her, as they so often do. The heat of battle, the pressure of being surrounded on all sides, and the clamor amidst chaotic confusion of an ambush. Dazing explosions rippling the very ground, screams of agony, and the foul stench of death hovers thickly in the air.

So clearly, she remembers the caustic weaponry dissolving the very faces of her former allies—her own unit…her friends. Stumbling with nearly every step, dodging the explosions and stray arrows raining down upon her, she witnesses the horror unfold before her eyes. Losing herself in a maelstrom of bemused anguish, Riven did the only thing she could do at that time…she ran.

Nothing was right about that battle…by all means, the Ionians should have won. They had the right strategy…the numbers…the _strength_. To have resorted to cheap tactics of catapulting chemicals from afar was not a true display of might. It was not the Noxian way… Of course, neither was abandoning the battle. The injury to her pride is only matched by the pain of having lived a lie for so long. She fought, killed, and bled for it, staining her hands with atrocity. Her whole life has been dedicated to one creed, and one alone: strength above all.

The familiar sting in her heart pulsates further as she ruminates the battle at Kalamanda. Many times has she contested overwhelming battles and foes since joining the League. Even facing legendary creatures such as dragons and a replica of Baron Nashor never caused her blade to paralyze. Why, then…? What made her so incapacitated?

Perhaps...the cause lies within the absence of the League. No coming back after death, and no Summoners to bail her out with a quick Flash away from danger. Unlike the previous battles of her life, the ones on the Fields of Justice guaranteed the ability to live to see the next day. The League took away the reality of war…the very essence of it. Perhaps that's why she joined to begin with…to fight on her own terms, but without bringing more death unto the world. A way to cheat death and murder to avoid her hands from becoming even more stained with blood and sin.

Is that the reason why she hesitated…? For the first time in so long, it felt… _real_. The unexpected ambush of overwhelming proportions, allies yelling out of struggle and pain, the racing heartbeat of dread that comes with being on the losing side. It's the genuine terror and possibility of death that made it so different from the League…and it made it so much the same as in Ionia. One moment, she was in Kalamanda, and the next, she was back in full-uniform, leading her unit to meet with the rest of Fury Company during the invasion. The sudden blast of reality was just too much to bear, and the shame of freezing up stings her even more so.

"Only the strong survive…" Riven reminds herself through gritting teeth.

As she summits a hilltop, a curious view of wreckage lies ahead of her. Scraps of twisted metal and debris streak across the grass, leaving a cindered trail of ashes and ravaged dirt. Riven scans the area, noticing no signs of struggle nor battle, and proceeds down the hill, turning to follow the path of destruction. Articles of machinery and fragmented sheets of various alloys become more prominent as she steps toward a crash site. The scrutinizing eyes of a soldier begin piecing together a scene as the Exile begins examining the area.

These are clearly the remains of an airborne vehicle that had met its end two, maybe three days ago. It's not a very large ship, meaning it could have been a recon unit, or a privately-owned vessel. Riven stumbles upon a set of footprints in the torn soil, and pursues them to the demolished chassis. The tracks appear to mix and mingle around the imprint of something heavy, like an object that was dragged off of the platform, and onto the ground, then loaded onto a horse-driven wagon. She enters the skeleton of the grounded airship, stepping over scorched upholstery and remains of the fallen crew.

Did those footprints belong to scavengers, perhaps? If so, what could have possibly survived this mess to have been worth taking? The insides seem barren, as if the only thing that was flying in this ship was the crew itself, which appears to only be a total of six. Fighting the images of the past, she ventures further, reaching the cockpit. A deceased pilot bears her first clue—the insignia of the 'City of Progress', sewn into the sleeve of his charred uniform. Riven's eyes narrow with suspicion.

"What is a Piltover airship doing all the way out here?"

She surmises that such a vessel is far too small to be a cargo zeppelin designed for trade between nations. Even if it were, it's way off course to any normal landing depot. Nothing about this site sits well with Riven, and she begins wondering if Ephrial may be onto something with his supposed lead. Before she can turn to begin exiting the wreckage, voices from outside approach.

"Why do we always have to clean up their messes?" a tall, stalky man groans.

His partner, much shorter with a hefty build, replies through some form of breathing mask. "It's what we're paid for. I already told you, that was the deal. We erase the trail, and so long as nothing traces back, they're happy…and if they're happy, we're happy."

"Yeah, but…did we really need to launch at our own men?"

"Hey, that's plenty more shares in our pockets! Besides, when did you start growing a conscience, anyway?"

"All I'm saying is…if they counted them as expendable, then what are _we_ to them?"

"As long as they keep filling my pockets with gold, I don't care. The moment they try something funny on us, we'll disappear like we always do."

Riven peeks out between a narrow space in the zeppelin's remains, examining the approaching pair. Their clothes are shabby-looking with wear-and-tear, but heavily padded for protection. The stout one has clearly seen better days, with a large apparatus covering the majority of his face, from the bridge of his nose, downward. Tubes run along his friend's shoulder, connecting the flesh of his torso with a mechanical arm in the stead of a missing limb. On their backs, they lug tanks connecting to a dispersal device of some form, like that of a gun. Everything about them screams Zaun, only feeding further into Riven's growing speculations of this airship's fate.

The tall one sighs. "All right, let's just get this over with, Luper."

Always one for head-on combat, the former posterchild of Noxus decides to take the direct approach. She emerges from the wreckage into plain sight, with a sharp, piercing gaze. The rough experience she has had with Zaun in the past, as well as the ones in the League, hardens the grip on her runic blade.

"What the—!?"

"A survivor!?"

"No, wait…that's…!"

"Are you the ones responsible for this?" she shoots daggers with a fierce gaze.

"Who the hell are you!?" the distorted voice behind the mask yells back.

Nervously whispering to his partner, "That's Riven, Luper. She's in the League of Legends, remember…?"

"Ah, right. The Noxian soldier that fled from battle, leaving her men to die. You're a long way away from home, little girl!"

"I'll ask you one more time… Are you responsible for this?" Riven slowly steps forward.

"Don't let her get too close, Luper!"

"Relax, Valken. We've got _these_ , remember?" gesturing at the dispersal device in his hands. "Melt her!"

The two take aim and pull the triggers. An extremely caustic substance spews forth, and Riven dashes to the side, behind the cover of the fallen zeppelin. Sickly-colored ooze douses the spot she had evaded from, and a bubbling, sizzling sound follows. A noxious odor floods the air, and part of the airship begins corroding at an alarming rate.

The Exile's heart skips a beat with the realization that her foes bear the weapons of her nightmares. _"Were they a part of Singed's regiment in Ionia…? Why would they be_ _ **here**_ _?"_

Questions will have to wait. The legendary Noxian weaves through the mangled skeleton of the airship, dodging blasts of chemical sludge. This substance reacts far faster than it did so long ago. Zaun sure hasn't let up one bit in their development of unorthodox weaponry and experiments. She shudders at the thought of what this new concoction does to flesh and bone.

Luper laughs and taunts. "That's it! Flee! How does it feel to know you're about to die like all the rest!"

A sensation of nausea fills Riven as old feelings begin rising to the surface like before. At the same time, the sense of indignation mixes in, as she is presented with an opportunity that can be taken as vengeance. Many of her friends and comrades died horrifically to this abomination of weaponry, and she has no intention of sharing that fate. The sensitivity of her past has never faded, and it is a huge mistake for this Zaunite to have brought it up.

Half of the airship is liquefying at a rapid pace, and Riven's cover dissolves with it. It's now or never. Her heart races, and with a blend of fear and conviction, she leaps out into the open again. A ferocious strike cleaves downward, severing Valken's prosthetic arm with a clean slice. The tubes around it begin to spill out green fluid, showering the soil in a biochemical support system.

The one-armed Zaunite wails in pain, releasing his grip on his device to grasp at his bleeding stump. With a swift flick of the large sword poising itself against him, he finds himself between his partner and the blade of the Exile. Nervously, he raises his remaining hand, shaking heavily, and slowly turns toward Luper.

"Don't you dare…" the stout Zaunite growls, holding his aim.

"Why are you here!?" Riven demands.

"That's none of your concern!"

"It's _your_ concern to answer me!"

Valken beseeches, "Luper, just—"

"I got this!" frustration building.

Riven asserts for an answer by drawing her blade closer to the neck of her leverage.

Lupen appears to waver, relaxing his shoulders and lowering his aim. He pauses, thinking for a moment, and Valken takes it as a sign of a bargain for his release. The masked Zaunite lets out a distorted sigh, shaking his head and looking back up at his fellow partner in crime.

"We've been through a helluva lot over the years, Valken. Always bailing each other out of trouble, one way or another."

"Y-yeah, it's been a wild ride…" he answers with anxious reminiscence.

"…But you know how big this is, even for us."

"Wait…what are you saying?"

"Our orders are clear."

"You can't—!"

"No witnesses."

Without further hesitation, he raises his armament back up, and unleashes a torrent of acid. Riven lurches to the side, tumbling out of the way of a wave of unnatural death. The air crackles with a loud sizzling and bubbling of chemicals eating away at organic material. Shrill screams and cries of pain pierce the air, speedily dissolving into a less and less human-like vocalization.

"We're…bro…thers…!" the deliquescing man manages a gurgle.

Riven gazes at the sight in absolute horror, seeing vivid images of the past turn back into present reality, right in front of her. She recoils hard, forcefully tearing her gaze away, a heart throbbing with dread. The Exile opens her eyes again, just in time to see a hardened, Zaunite mercenary doing the same, watching the result of his actions. They pick themselves up from a brief, but heavy moment of realization, and take combative action, remembering the threat at hand.

In a split moment, a sharp edge carves through the dispersal gun, causing it to explode in the hand of its user. Caustic material splashes over the reeling man, and he falls to the ground. Writhing in pain, he thrashes around a growing pool of a terrible invention.

Riven, with a divided purpose, steps forward to bark an unanswered question. "Who sent you!?" asking half out of her current mission, and half out of a subconscious need for closure of the past.

Lupen wheezes through this mask, slowly meeting the same fate as his brother before him.

"Answer me!" almost out of breath, barely holding herself together from another paralyzing episode of haunting memories.

The only response she receives is the bubbling and gasping of a dead man as his life ebbs away. She can bear it no longer, and rips herself from the scene, stumbling as she goes. It's a sight she had been hoping never to witness again; something she wanted to bury forever. Yet, in reality, it is no surprise. She's well aware of Singed's involvement in Ionia, and knows that even if he is stopped, there will always be another in Zaun to take his place. The cycle of death continues…and so must she.

Riven wearily picks herself up, holding her head in one hand, and her keepsake blade in another. She looks onward, at the tall mountain range ahead. The future beacons her, and unknown conflict awaits. One foot in front of the other, she trudges, a torn spirit pressing onward.

Just what exactly lies ahead? So often does the clarity of her purpose fade in and out, between moments of resolve and the off-putting weight of her sins. It's a struggle she must bear, no matter how difficult it becomes. Broken, but still walking the path of the Exile, she marches on.

After all, a sword mirrors its owner.


	27. Chapter 27: Valor

**-  
Chapter 27**

 ** _Valor_**

"So much death…" Riven whispers to herself, gazing at the scene of a freshly-ravaged caravan.

A dozen guards lay dead amidst their slain mounts, arrows and deep gashes telling of a heavy ambush. The cargo has been taken, and the rest left to rot away in the ashes of a barbaric aftermath.

Just another merchant convoy gone awry after taking the risk of going through the narrow ravine of the Ironspike mountains. Traveling with the weight of many goods is a gamble, and that's why so many peddlers employ the aid of guards and mercenaries to trek through these parts. Even with the danger, it is far less risky than taking the path that cuts through the mountains between Zaun and Noxus.

Judging by the lack of a long, trailing mess, this was a very swift and decisive assault. There are no traces of an extended battle, and all of the bodies belonging to the convoy lie close to the wagon. A few fallen men, lacking an organized uniform, lie amongst them, clearly sporting the dirty, rugged look of marauders. Unlike the previous encounter with the zeppelin, this doesn't look out of the ordinary.

As the Exile cautiously passes by, a small rustling disturbs some of the debris, causing her to raise her blade in preparation. One of the boards hanging onto the chassis of the caravan collapses, and a little girl coughs her way out of the heap. Riven lowers her sword at the sight of a miniature survivor.

A few steps away from the mess of flaming wreckage, and the young blonde girl's coughing settles. She looks up at the Noxian, and her eyes grow wide with fear. She screams in terror, sprinting in the opposite direction. The walls of rock around them carry her high-pitched voice, and Riven dashes out for her, crossing the remains of the doomed convoy.

"Wait—!"

The nimble Exile follows the child down the path and around a small corner, to a crevice in the rocks where she has cornered herself in exhausted fear.

"Don't hurt me! Please…! No more!" her words dissolve into an incomprehensible mess of tears.

"I'm not here to hurt you," a somber voice reaches out. Riven places her oversized blade down, leaning it gently on a nearby rock. "Look… See?" showing her empty hands.

The little girl, no older than seven or eight years old, looks at her with glassy eyes, her vision blurred by paralyzing distress. Fear and panic hold firm her distrust, and she remains in the fissured wall, shrunken just beyond reach.

"What happened here?" Riven asks.

Efforts by the Exile provide no avail. She can't help but think her own appearance may have something to do with it. The little survivor in front of her wears a dainty little dress, layers and frills decorating the rich fabric, complimented by tiny bows of lace. It's the kind of attire that would be associated with a member of the upper-class in Piltover.

On the other hand, Riven is still wearing remnants of her old armor, and certainly doesn't have the prim qualities that would strike a chord with the Piltovan child. Everything about her is still very Noxian and warriorlike, which is perhaps the last thing this victim would want to see cornering her.

The white-haired wanderer tries a different tactic, and reaches into a small ration pouch. She pulls out a piece of dried meat and offers it to the little girl, slowly reaching her arm into the crevice, avoiding any quick movements that might frighten her.

"Hungry?" the Noxian tempts her.

An appetite, provoked by the offer, begins to slowly triumph over trepidation. With extreme caution, the little Piltie takes tiny steps closer, and nervously reaches out for the article of food. With a quick grasp, she snatches the piece and begins devouring it. Funny how brittle things like poise and manners are in the face of battle or distress.

The faintest of grins sneaks its way on Riven's lips, only for a quick moment. A feeling of doing something right glints in an otherwise gloomy spirit. With the small child reaching a much calmer state, she begins investigating. "Are you okay?"

A full mouth can only respond with a slightly more trusting gaze and a gentle nod.

"Can you tell me what happened here?"

Exhaustion and despair cause the little girl to sink down, her knees and tall socks becoming dirty in the rough ground. "The bad people…they…" she musters through another oncoming wave of tears. "They took my mommy…!"

She dissolves into helpless sobbing once again, causing Riven to feel a bit on the uncomfortable side. Having grown up in a place where such displays were not tolerated the same way as in other regions, she has no clue how to handle it.

"It's…alright…" fidgeting slightly. "Do you know where they took her?"

A grieving girl shakes her head in response, her blonde locks and tiny butterfly hairbows swaying with the motion.

Riven lets out a sigh, foreseeing a detour in her steadfast journey. "Well, it appears like we'll just have to look for them."

Teary eyes like emeralds look up from a huddled position. "You—...you're going to help me…?"

"I am. We'll have to get going now if we're going to have any chance of finding her," she looks up at the sky, a dying sunset swiftly burning out.

"…I don't know…" still shaken up.

"Want another bite?" offering an extra slice of jerky.

A hungry little Piltie reaches for it, missing as its yanked away.

"Ah-ah! For this one, you'll have to come on out," Riven gestures.

Hunger dominates over weary reluctance, and the little blonde rises up. She climbs out of her hiding place and receives another helping of rations. Wolfing the food down, she wipes her eyes and looks up at Riven, wondering what's next.

"I'm Cecilia. What's your name?" an innocent voice questions.

"I-I'm… It's not important. I won't be around here long enough for you to need to remember it."

"Oh…"

Stung by her crestfallen reaction, the Exile softens up. If she's going to take on this detour of aiding a little girl, she might as well act the full part at this point. "…It's Riven."

"…Th-thank you for the food, Miss Riven."

Miss? What an oddly unprecedented title given to her. She can't help but find it amusing on one level, and then darkened on another. If only this little girl knew to whom she is addressing as such.

"Alright… Let's go find your mother," picking up her shattered, but hefty blade.

"…Are you a soldier?" the tiny voice asks.

Riven pauses at the question, then resumes walking back toward the wreckage with Cecilia trailing behind. "…I used to be."

"What happened?" young curiosity persists.

"…Something similar to this," walking past the slain guards.

Hearing the sudden lack of small footsteps behind her, Riven turns around to see Cecilia gazing at the scene of horror, as if in a trance. With a sympathetic heartbeat, Riven strides back and quickly grasps the child's fragile hand, forcing her away from the repugnant picture of death.

A few silent minutes of walking along the dull, gray rocks, darkened by the shade of the surrounding mountains, and they come across a fork in the road. Three paths lay in front of them, split by walls of rock that make the narrow valley even more restricted.

"Okay, it's time to focus," kneeling down, getting on the little Piltie's level. "Which direction did they take her?"

"I don't know…"

"I need you to try."

Cecilia takes a look at the diverging paths, looking lost and confused. She takes a few steps forward, as if gazing far down each one. Her face grimaces slightly as she reviews a tragic memory, still fresh in her mind. The little girl points on the path to the left and begins running down.

"Wait!" Riven calls out, chasing her.

The two follow the narrow passage as the night creeps over them. A handful of campfires light up a series of holes along the side of the wall around the bend. Riven pulls the girl to the side, behind the cover of a nearby boulder. She looks on ahead at a network of tunnels inside the mountain itself, like a roughly-made catacomb of various chambers. Those that dwell within must have been inhabiting the place for quite some time, making it a base of operations, well-hidden in the labyrinth of the Ironspike mountains. Most that trail along stick to the one path that leads straight ahead from one side of the mountain range to the other. While there is more than one way through, many passages lead to dead-ends, providing easy targets for the bandits that know this area best.

A contemplating Exile peers at the silhouettes that roam the entrances. Cheers and clinking of tankards echo along the walls of the gorge, telling of a celebration about their latest plunder. A trained mind counts this as an advantage. The heavy drinking and merriment will make it far easier to sneak past slumbering and distracted guards. Infiltration is not quite her style, but while having to babysit a vulnerable target, she will have to make an exception.

"Twelve…thirteen…fourteen…" Riven counts under her breath.

"…Is my mommy in there?" Cecilia tugs at her skirt.

The Noxian hesitates, reluctant to give the young girl an unfortunate likelihood, or a false hope. "We'll find out soon. Come on. Stay close, and be _very_ quiet."

As Riven takes the lead ahead, she feels a tiny grip reach for her hand. Caught off-guard by the notion, she looks back at Cecilia, who innocently looks back at her with a worrisome look. Reddish-brown eyes look at the tiny hand clutching her own, feeling a contrast with her own grip on the hilt of her runic blade. The only familiarity Riven has with this kind of act is purely secondary, only witnessing it between mothers and their children on her travels. A heavy mind stirs with conflict—the years of guilt and hardship not sitting well with a situation that requires a certain brand of tenderness. It's as if this is but another unprecedented challenge, taunting her at the very core on a sensitive level. Still, she must atone for her sins, somehow…

With Cecilia in tow, the Exile quietly sneaks closer and closer to the brigands' stronghold. The aroma of roasted meat and ale fills the air, smoke still rising from the fires pits burning below the carved remains of boar and raptors. The two approach the nearest entrance, and stay just out of sight of one of the men as he takes a stroll to stretch out his legs. It is way too early to resort to lethal tactics and leave any signs of blood or distress for a passerby to find. Taking a small rock from the abundant pebbles scattered around the loose terrain, Riven throws one over the head of the man. The resulting sound catches his attention, and with a small degree of wariness, he moves over to investigate.

Silent steps sneak their way into the unguarded opening, and slip into the first chambers of the cavern. Broken crates and furniture that have seen better days litter the floor and walls. Small, wooden chests lay open with trinkets and fabrics of little to no more interest to the murderous thieves.

Just from the view of the outside alone, Riven surmises that exploring each chamber would take far too long. Not only must she locate any prisoners, assuming any are left alive, she must find a way to safely get them out of the bandits' territory. It's an extraction mission, something she is not quite accustomed to. Such efforts from Noxus' military are usually reserved for those of a quieter, more…shadowy nature, like those involved in recovering Sion's remains from Demacia.

The quickest way to gather any useful information is through interrogation. It would be preferable to catch someone that looks easy to crack, sparing valuable time and effort while this far behind enemy lines, where one misstep can cost them everything. As the two carefully make their way from one room to another, concealing themselves behind rock formations and shadows, they see no traces of anything that might lead them to their destination.

In the next chamber, a group of brigands lay passed out from a hard celebration, and they carefully pass over them. Like ghosts of the night, they reach a tunnel just ahead, undetected so far. It's dark, and the only sign of light is on the other side. Remaining low, they infiltrate further in, keeping their eyes and ears open for any approaching bandits.

At the end of the corridor, they find themselves elevated at the second story of this stone hamlet. It's a room of no particular interest, host to nothing but litter, dust, and empty cots. A crudely-shaped hole, serving as a window that has been chiseled through the rock, beacons their attention. Riven peers through, seeing the ground below teeming with ruffians. The fact that so many of them can eke out a miniature civilization here impresses her. Not many of those who choose such a dishonorable lifestyle tend to do this well together. By the looks of everything, they've been doing this for quite a handful of years. Perhaps soon will come a time where they can no longer survive on the merchants that tread these mountains, and will spread to other lands to satisfy their desire to pillage.

The sturdy eyes of a soldier continue to scout the area, scanning the chambers located on the opposite side. Like a dangling string just out of a cat's reach, her objective appears to lie just ahead. Through another window, across the lake of armed mountain men, she makes out the steel bars of a rudimentary prison. Though she cannot see anyone, the mere sight of a cage in dim firelight is enough to point her in the right direction.

"Do you see her…? Do you see my mommy?" Cecilia tugs at Riven's skirt.

"Not yet…but we might be close."

 _'_ _Close'_ is a relative term, as to reach them by normal means would require they backtrack all the way down where they had come from, and sneak past dozens of brigands to get to the other tunnels. A messy, warrior's ponytail peeks out of the opening, looking for another path. The jagged edges of the mountain's surface provide a small ledge, just big enough to shimmy over to the next section of chambers carved into the terrain. Judging by sight, she approximates a distance of fifteen meters from window to window, just about the same distance as they are from the ground.

Riven looks at the worried little girl. "How do you feel about heights?"

"I…I don't like heights. Heights make me dizzy! Dizzier than usual…"

Great… Caught in the middle of dangerous business, with this ledge being the only way to continue on, and the young girl has vertigo. Left with no choice, Riven resorts to giving her the only treatment familiar to her—the Noxian variety.

"Alright… We're going to cross this ledge, and you are not to look down under any circumstances, understood?"

"B—but…!"

"Here," she kneels down. "Get on."

With reluctance and hesitation, Cecilia silently agrees, and hops onto Riven's back. She wraps her arms around her neck, at first, enjoying the piggyback ride. Her grip tightens as the fear begins to seep in. One step through the window, then the other foot, and the little Piltovan's heartbeat intensifies.

Riven holds her sword firmly, carefully bringing it with her as she finds herself outside. With both hands, she begins to maneuver along the ledge, keeping the runic blade as flat as possible against the wall in front of her.

She feels the trembling of the fearful girl clinging on. Step by step, she focuses on making it across the obstacle, slowly but surely. A few more cautious feet, and the shaking arms begin to slip.

 _"_ _Don't let go!"_ Riven lets out a hushed whisper.

 _"_ _I…I can't do it!"_ Cecilia's dizziness begins to come into play.

 _"_ _Just don't look down!"_

" _M…mommy…!"_ she begins to sob gently, paralyzing fear keeping it from being loud enough for those below to notice.

The Noxian ex-soldier grits her teeth at the situation, dividing herself between keeping her balance, and making sure not to move in a way that would cause Cecilia to release her hold.

 _"_ _L-look… Just close your eyes, okay? Try to think of something else,"_ Desperately trying to improvise some form of comfort; irony forming out of her own discomfort at the newly-found job of babysitting.

The little girl shuts her eyes tightly, her face scrunching like she had just been sprayed in the eyes with lemon juice. _"Like what…?"_

 _"_ _I don't know…"_ catching herself off-guard from her own suggestion. _"What do you want to be when you grow up…?"_ resorting to the most basic of inquiries.

 _"…_ _I…I want to be a Legend…"_ she sniffles.

 _"_ _A what…?"_

 _"_ _I want to be like those heroes I hear about in the League…"_

Riven's face changes with the unexpected reply. Judging by her wording, she has never seen a League match, but has most certainly come across some information on it. A sheltered girl such as she would perhaps be kept away from spectacles of a violent nature, seeing as how it could be considered too brutish for nobles that find themselves far more concerned with economic politics. Yet, that kind of imposed safekeeping may be the reason she might find a heavy interest in things outside of her enclosed world. Quite a young, rebellious soul in-the-making. With the images of repetitive death and struggle of the League in mind, Riven asks the only question she can.

 _"_ _Why…?"_

 _"_ _I don't want to be scared anymore… I don't want to be dizzy all the time, and I don't want all the others to keep making fun of me…!"_

A stirring of guilt washes over the wanderer. She has underestimated the struggle that even wealthy, protected nobles go through. Strength takes a variety of forms, including the spirit to break free from the chains that bind one to their nation's expectations of them.

 _"_ _I see… Tell me about some of your favorites."_

 _"_ _I don't know… I've never seen…—"_ fear of the current situation grips her again.

 _"_ _It's okay. Just tell me what you know of them."_

 _"_ _W-well…there's the fox lady with a bunch of tails. She shoots fireballs at her enemies and blasts them away with her magic orb."_

Ahri, a bigtime fan favorite makes it first onto the list. As one of the champions with the largest number of viewers-per-match, it comes as no surprise to hear the vulpine combatant mentioned in social gatherings of any kind.

Cecilia continues. _"…Then there's Teemo! I saw a poster of him once. He's cute, and he doesn't let himself get bullied, even though he's small…"_

Almost anyone else would laugh at such an assertion. Riven would have lost her grip, if not for her level of seriousness and grave mindset. The Swift Scout is hardly a 'victim' of bullying, though he always finds himself the prime target of a League match. He's a strong warrior that lives to his code about size being an unimportant factor, but his methods are arguably…irksome.

 _"_ _Oh, and there's a new one! He's like a knight in armor, and he fights with a big, fiery sword, and he's not afraid of anything! His name is…Eph…ree…"_

 _"_ _Ephrial,"_ she corrects the pronunciation.

 _"_ _Yeah, him! He's really strong…and he doesn't like bullies! I heard he can take several Legends at once!"_

Riven smirks to herself. Newcomers have always gotten a lot of attention in their first days; a common 'flavor of the month' type of syndrome. However, it seems to be slightly different in his case. She remembers seeing some of the publications herself—headlines covering the current events of the League. Articles remarking on the fiery swordsman's fervor and unmatched determination. While many of the veteran champions have learned to steer clear of direct confrontation with some of the more vicious and sizable combatants, he has always faced them head-on. It's the type of exciting display many have come to expect and enjoy when spectating the League, and the form of warrior's honor appreciated by those that realize how rare such a thing is now. Ephrial has made quite a splash in the Institute, and yet, with his short time there before the attack, nothing has really come of it. He's still very much a stranger to many others that fight in the Fields of Justice.

 _"_ _It sounds like you know quite a lot about him."_

 _"_ _Well…he's the one all the grown-ups are talking about now. Some people don't like him because he's from Noxus…"_

 _"…_ _What about you? What do you think?"_

 _"_ _I think he's a lot nicer than the others… I've never heard stories of_ _ **them**_ _saving villages and stuff…"_

The truth seeded in those words stings Riven's core, having been a part of the very stories contrast to those told about the Blazing Swordsman. No…not even just the mere tales, but the very reputation that he must fight against. The Noxian standard of bloodshed and brutality that causes those to doubt the honor he holds in his blade and soul. This very string of thought begs the question Riven has held onto since they began traveling together: 'why would he want to fight alongside _me_?'

At last, the two infiltrators approach the hole in the wall that serves as a roughly-shaped window. Sharp eyes peer through the opening, seeing an opportunity to step inside without being spotted. With a careful twist, she throws one leg over the ledge, and then the other. Riven sets down a very relieved Cecilia, both glad to have crossed such a hurdle without incident.

"…Were's mommy?" the young girl looks around in confusion.

"We're almost there," replying with a hopeful suggestion, for Cecilia's sake.

The echoing of cheers in this section of the caverns is much quieter than the previous. Their surroundings consist of lanterns and storage boxes. Worn-out weapons and pieces of armor rest on degrading racks. This is, without a doubt, their armory. A wooden door stands at the entrance, creating a different feel from the rooms they have traversed so far. Somehow, this portion feels more refined, with the walls being straighter, and the floor flattened out. Just how long have these bandits been here?

Cecilia eyes the weaponry with a fearful curiosity, having seen such tools devastate her caravan just earlier. Riven approaches the door and slowly pushes it open, peeking through with caution. She sees a silhouette of a lone brigand walking across the hall, yawning after an eventful day. A quiet room and an isolated guard create an opportunity they cannot afford to miss.

"Hide," Riven commands Cecilia with a grave look.

The little girl scurries to the corner, laying low behind a crate full of various, stolen helmets. With a single, audible knock on the door, the Noxian lays out the bait for the man across the hall. She crouches by the entrance, waiting for the door to open. Curious footsteps approach, and a voice calls out as he enters.

"Grimm, is that you messing with the knives again…? What the—!?"

Before he can react, Riven floors him with a solid fist to the face. A runic blade holds itself steady above him, just centimeters from his jugular.

"The caravan you attacked earlier; where are the prisoners!?" Riven cuts straight to the point.

"Who the hell are—"

"Where!?" crouching lower, getting face-to-face.

Fierce eyes drive the aggression and directness of Noxian interrogation to the man's very core. A cold sweat quickly forms over the man's forehead, fear showing in his eyes.

"T-they're being held in the cell straight down the hall. Just keep following it until it ends, then cross the platform…! Please…don't…!" the blade, pressing against his flesh.

Coward… Ruthless in the face of a powerless target, but their true colors always show in the face of strength superior to their own. It's something she simply can't stand. Riven may have committed atrocities, but she never took pride in attacking civilians. She always wanted to be at the head of the battle, spearheading her unit into the enemy's ranks for a worthy fight. The extermination of unarmed families in Ionia exhausted her more than anything. Still, orders were orders…

She offers no excuse for her actions, but these people are different. They murder not for a nation, not for a belief, but for mere amusement. They show no remorse for their actions until they find themselves staring their own demise in the face. Yet, is that not the case for herself…? The moment of her turnaround started with death of a most gruesome nature, devouring all that she had known and held dear. Is she truly no different from these fiends…?

Riven's gaze turns up to Cecilia, who watches with wide eyes, peeking out from her cover. The Noxian looks back to the pitiful man at her mercy. While she would normally dispose of him, a resolve of violence to end violence, she decides to spare him for the girl's sake. The little Piltie has seen enough death for one day, not to mention that her mother's fate has still yet to be determined.

"Hand me that rope," Riven tells Cecilia.

She knows he will not give up his ways, and will continue to murder and steal. However, if she kills him now, the true death will be Cecilia's innocence; a glimmer of hope in a gloomy world. Riven still loves Noxus, and the pure vision she holds, but until the city-state is cleansed of corruption, the docile nature of other nations will have to do for now. The resolution of bloodshed to end bloodshed will have to take a backseat tonight. She rockets her gauntlet into the guard's face, sending his skull back into the ground, knocking him out cold.

Riven fastens a thick rope around the brigand's hands and feet, hogtying him in a sure way that he cannot break free when he regains consciousness. With another careful peek outside of the doorway, she begins walking down the hall. Cecilia rushes to her side, grasping her hand for a feeling of security.

Small torches light the path of barren walls. The stretch slowly turns into a tight-knit corridor of bed chambers. Some of the doors are wide-open, empty tables and cots inside of small rooms. Others are closed shut; the sound of snoring from alcohol-induced slumber rumbles from inside.

Voices approach from ahead, and an alerted Riven pulls Cecilia with her into one of the rooms, closing the door almost all the way. They press against the wall and quietly listen as the two pass.

A content, relaxed voice reaches their ears. "Ahh… It's been a while since I've tasted such rich mead."

"Once you've spilt blood for Kirin, you get all the good stuff," the deep voice of a veteran warrior replies.

"What about the prisoners? Namely, that woman."

"That's not for us to decide. Don't worry, though. The boss is very generous with the spoils."

The two share a grinning laugh as they pass, and the hallway falls quiet once again. Riven can safely assume that one of the two is a new recruit, possibly from the caravan itself. It's not out of the ordinary for bands of criminals to recruit some of their victims, especially sellswords struggling to find consistent work. Weak hearts fall to dishonor for the sake of self-preservation all the time.

"Let's go," Riven whispers to Cecilia.

Swift steps continue down the corridor, following the path as it curves. They pass by a worn stairway, a crude hole carved into the stone floor, that leads to the lower level of the stronghold. Moonlight becomes visible once again as they come across an outdoor walkway of wooden planks. Carefully, they crouch to the edge, getting view of the camp below them. The unlikely pair find themselves on the opposite end from which they came, directly across the window they had entered the armory through. A new angle allows them to see a stable down below, off towards the right.

In the shade of the overhanging rocks, Riven can make out the wafting tails of horses and a hay-bearing cart, just beyond an open door. If she can somehow manage to get them far enough, it would prove to be invaluable for getting the prisoners out of here.

"Is she close?" the worrisome girl tugs at the rugged shawl around Riven's shoulders.

"Let's keep moving…"

A left turn, and they cautiously move across the walkway, keeping themselves pressed against the mountain. There's no cover, save for a single barrel that sits at the very edge, and they pick up their pace to avoid being caught. Silvery moonlight from above lights up the entire stronghold, making them easy to pick out if someone down below happens to look in their direction.

A few more fleet-footed steps, and they enter a large chamber with a dim campfire. Tending to the flame is a guard, poking at the embers with a stick, his back facing the intruding girls. Riven's sandals creep closer, and she releases Cecilia's hand, bracing herself for a surprise attack.

"Mommy!" the little girl can't keep her excitement bottled after seeing her mother behind thick bars of iron.

"Cecilia!" a woman replies with a mixture of relief while being terrified at the sight of her daughter in such a place.

"Huh? Intruders!?" the guard springs up, drawing a rusty scimitar from his belt.

The Noxian legend quickly hops forward, bringing her blade crashing down on his. She quickly subdues the bandit, and Cecilia runs past them, straight to her mother. The two exchange an embrace through the bars of the cell, and burst into tears.

A quick look around the perimeter finds that the commotion has not revealed them. Riven searches the unconscious prison guard for the key to the cell, finding it on a large ring around his belt.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're okay! But…how did you get here…? And who is that?" Cecilia's mother, looking at the ex-soldier, almost as if she were one of the villainous riff-raff around here.

"That's Miss Riven! She's here to save us!"

"Riven… Where have I heard that name before…?"

She hasn't recognized the Noxian for who she is yet, and that's just how Riven prefers it. With a twist of the rough, iron key, the door of the cell grinds open. The Piltie's mother and four others walk out of the cage, creating a total of six people Riven has to look out for.

A woman, still in her prime, curtsies slightly in gratitude. She is well-dressed, and shares the same brightly-colored hair as Cecilia. Her poise displays a sense of dignity and refinement, with a steady, direct gaze when speaking.

"…Thank you. Riven, was it?" feeling wary. "I'm Erin, Cecilia's mother. Words cannot express my appreciation for taking care of my daughter."

"We need to leave now."

Riven examines the survivors. Judging by the torn and dirty state of their clothes, they've been roughed up a bit. These are not men and women of physical labor. They are slim, making a living off of buying and selling products, and have virtually no combat experience. Two of the merchants support a third on their shoulders; a twisted ankle hindering his mobility. Making a mad dash out of the settlement is not a feasible option. Getting them all out of here will be no easy task.

"What do we do now, Miss Riven?" Cecilia tugs.

She sighs, feeling the burdening weight of being slowed down. "We need to get you to the wagon in the stalls…but that effort won't be worth the trouble if we can't form a distraction as you ride out."

"A distraction, you say?" the crippled young man speaks up. "As they brought us here, I overheard some of the bandits talk of stolen explosives in one of the chambers below us. If you can find a way to ignite that, I think it will provide more than enough distraction!"

"That sounds dangerous…" Erin says, worried for her daughter.

"First, we have to get you down to the stalls. Quietly."

"How are we supposed to do that? The area is teeming with those guys," a battered captive questions.

"There's a stairway that leads to the ground level," Riven nods in the direction she had come. "It should lead to a path to where the wagon is kept."

" _Should_ lead us there?" further uncertainty arising.

"Their armory is located very close to their barracks. It's a military tactic to have arms located close to the sleeping quarters, and mounts nearby in order to respond to attacks. This minimizes the amount of time needed to prepare."

"Sounds like you know what you're talking about…"

"That's not fair, Marcus! She helped me!" Cecilia protests his tone of suspicion.

"Please, forgive my nephew, Miss Riven. This has been quite a perturbing experience for all of us," Erin follows.

His distrust is not completely unfounded. Aside from her career in the Noxian military, a long journey of wandering and solitude has made her appearance not too unlike those surrounding them. Riven's nature is not exactly a gentle one, though a sense of honor still holds a gap between her and any brigand.

"The time for talk is over. We need to move."

The Exile takes the lead, pressing her back against the wall and peeking out of the corner. Making sure no wandering eyes are looking up in their direction, she motions the freed captives to make their way across the moonlit wooden boards of the walkway. With the wounded member of their group, they make their way as fast as they are able.

In her anxiousness, a spell of dizziness causes Cecilia to lose her balance, and she trips with a loud thud on the shaky boards of the timber flooring. Hearts skip a beat with the revealing sound, and they drop flat to avoid being caught. Almost against her deeply-driven training, Riven dives out from her cover, and pulls the little girl along with her. Using the last of her momentum, she rolls behind the barrel sitting by the edge, holding the young Piltovan with her in its shade.

Her jaws clench, listening intently for any talks of suspicion or orders to check the area out. The laughter and cheers of the celebration below proceed unbroken. A wave of relief washes over the group, and with an extra degree of caution, they continue their way to the barracks. With a fearful mix of guilt and gratefulness, Cecilia walks alongside Riven, clinging tightly onto her skirt.

The corridor is as quiet as before, with the only signs of life slumbering away behind closed and partially-opened doors. They reach the break in the wall and floor, where a long row of stairs leads into a dim chamber.

 _"_ _Stay here,"_ Riven whispers an order to them.

 _"_ _I'm coming with you,"_ a defiant child sticks to her.

 _"_ _This is not a game."_

Erin reaches for her daughter. _"Cecilia, Darling, please…do as she says."_

Reluctantly, the little girl releases her grip, and surrenders to her mother's gentle restraint.

Riven, holding a stoic gaze, proceeds onward with a solid grip on her blade. The chamber is poorly-lit, and voices echo amidst the sound of clinking bottles. The path from the stairs to the exit is wide and clear, but in order to maintain her stealth, she takes a turn alongside the wall. Various shelves and containers flood the area, granting an abundance of cover in this cluttered mess. As she makes her way through the narrow labyrinth of a large storage room, the nearby conversing of two men becomes more audible.

"Ay…where's all the good rum at?"

"Cliffe must have gotten the last of it again. Blasted dog, hogging all the good stuff."

"Nng…I'm sick of wine," the first one grunts in frustration.

"Relax. I have a stash somewhere close in case this sort of thing happens. If you tell anyone about this…"

"I won't, I won't! Just promise me you'll save me a bottle every so often, eh?"

It appears that these two have come here alone, perhaps without permission, to seek a finer refreshment than the spoils they have recently plundered.

In order to get the prisoners out safely, this room must be cleared. All threats have to be eliminated, lest they compromise a delicate rescue operation. Riven takes the time to make certain they are the only people in the room, and follows them to a cache kept secret from the rest of the stronghold. With a sense of honor taking the helm of her next move, she approaches them, making her presence known before engaging in combat.

The Exile taps her blade on an empty glass bottle next to her, and the two men she has been following jolt in surprise. They look at each other in confusion, and then a sigh of relief.

"Ah – you had me worried there… I thought you were Kirin."

"Well, well. I haven't seen you around here before. You must be one of the new recruits from last week. What's your name, little lady?" an unrefined attempt at being charming.

"Draw your weapons," Riven says, coldly.

"Easy there. This little private stash can be kept a three-way secret. Things don't have to get messy," eyeing the size of her blade.

"I don't think she's here for a drink…" the first one takes a step back.

Riven closes in, giving them one last chance to retaliate. The provocation reaches its limit, and the two pull out their weapons from their belts. A large knife stabs downward, cutting nothing but air. The crooked blade, still in a tight grasp, falls straight to the floor. A severed arm causes the man to stare at a sharply-cut stump where his limb used to be, and a scream of pain is silenced with a glint of green before it can even let out.

The second of the two men fidgets with an axe in his hand, backing away from his slain friend. "That symbol…I can still tell what it is. You're from Noxus, aren't you…!?"

He points to the faded insignia on Riven's pauldron. Traces of white paint still hold onto the tarnished armor, partially forming the signature Noxian emblem. It's just another reminder of where she comes from and what she's done…as if she is capable of ever forgetting.

"Don't you dare look down on me…! You people have done far worse than we ever have!" he steadies himself.

The encounter concludes with a devastating swing of a runic blade. With the room cleared, she swiftly makes her way to the exit. Maintaining her cover, she warily looks outside. Fortunately for her cause, the area is rather empty. A man in charge of tending to the mounts leaves the stalls, mumbling to himself as he heads back to the celebration. Another quick scan just to be sure, and she turns around to view the stairway from which she had descended.

A handful of silhouettes stand eagerly at the last of the steps, gazing back at her for some sort of sign. Riven cues them with a gesture of her head, and the group hurriedly finishes climbing down, making their way across the room to join her. Together, they creep along the wall of the mountain, sticking to the shadows. Using the boxes that formerly belonged to their caravan to hide behind, the group manages to creep their way into the stalls unnoticed.

The room is almost pitch-black, silvery moonlight leaking through a shabby door. An odor that commonly accompanies livestock wafts thickly in the air. In front of them, a large wagon stacked with hay sits in the middle of the room, with horses sharing bites and nibbles at a time.

"All right. Prepare this wagon to go straight out of here, and don't stop," Riven, looking Erin dead in the eyes.

"What about you?" little Cecilia looks up.

"I need to make sure they don't follow you."

Erin, between breaths of a stifled anxiety, "…Thank you."

"Wait for my signal."

"How are we supposed to know what the signal is if we're enclosed here?" Marcus speaks.

"You'll know."

With that, the Exile slips back outside, deft and experienced steps moving against the clock. As the celebration will be nearing its end, the bodies Riven left behind will surely be discovered soon. She moves along the wall, passing the storage room and making her way into the next opening in the rock. Following the tip she received from the crippled captive earlier, she begins exploring the chambers just below the prison cells.

Dying torches light the path, and the walls seem to widen. Unlike the previous rooms, this one stretches far deeper into the mountain. Chains hold skeletons by the wrists, broken bones telling of brutality and merciless flogging. Empty clasps still await for the day another unfortunate soul joins their ranks.

Metal bars come into sight, gating the entire width of the cavern. As she approaches, Riven can easily tell these are a much higher grade of metal, and set in with far more craftsmanship than the prison cells. These are the kind of bars meant to keep people out, not in.

Inside, a vast amount of glittering treasure sits in open view. Small and big chests, plain and ornate, overflow with coins. Various gems sparkle in between the strands of pearls and accessories fit for royalty. Surrounding the entire chamber are barrels of explosive powders and sticks of dynamite, no doubt retrieved from the plunders of the past. It would seem that somebody has taken the extra precaution of rigging the place to blow up their treasure rather than allow it to be taken from them.

A sturdy hand tests the gate. It's locked tighter than Lee Sin's Kung Fu grip on the jungle in Summoner's rift, and it doesn't look like her blade can easily coax the door to open by force. Riven notices the two torches on either side of the entrance, just beyond the gate, burning especially brightly. They've been freshly replaced recently, and the feeling that something is not quite right descends upon her.

"Well, well, well…like a moth to the flame, as predicted," a woman's voice echoes from behind. "What's with that look? You didn't honestly expect your presence to have gone unnoticed, did you?"

Riven now faces a group of six men, each armed with a vicious blade in their hands, and daggers in their gaze. Standing in front of them, a woman with a large, red snake tattoo winding around her body, rests her foot on an axe as big as her frame. Long, raven hair drapes down in a large ponytail, and a scarred face grins impishly at the Exile.

"You're pretty sloppy, you know that?" She sighs, "Then again, the same can be said about my men, just letting you stroll on in."

"Maybe if your men were as trustworthy as steel bars, it wouldn't have been so easy," Riven bites back.

"My, you certainly have spirit. I am Kirin, leader of the Blood Vipers. And **_you_** are a trespasser that has wandered deep within our jaws."

"I don't need to know the name of a coward that preys on unarmed civilians for entertainment."

"I see you have fangs of your own," remarking at Riven's disposition and large blade. "We always welcome new additions to our ranks. However, I am more than aware that certain people need to first be…persuaded. _Thoroughly_."

The Exile braces herself for combat. These guys lack a proper stance, and their handle on their weapons looks weak. Veteran eyes of someone who has seen war can easily tell. Each of these men is already dead without knowing it… All that remains is for them to step forward and seal their fate.

 _She_ , however, is different. Kirin stands there with that same smirk on her face that she came in with. There's no inkling of any kind of anxiousness. The woman already knows exactly what the outcome will be. A black heart has sent her own men to die for her own amusement, just to witness the capability of the intruder first-hand.

The sounds of metal clashing and scraping echoes loudly through the cavern. Battle cries turn to screams of pain, blood painting the walls a runny crimson. As per the Noxian code, only the strongest remain standing, leaving Riven and the grinning Kirin to lock eyes.

The leader of the bandits claps mildly, "Bravo, **bra-vo**. You'll make an excellent addition."

"I would never join the likes of you!" Riven swings the blood of several men off her blade.

"Oh, everything surrenders at one point or another. Whether it's one's mind, body, or spirit, there's always that threshold where even the most formidable soul…" Kirin's voice trails into a taunting whisper. **_"Breaks."_**

The remark on the shattered sword, and quite possibly on the Noxian's questionable past, sets the two in motion. A green blade clashes with the devilish head of a devastating axe. Both set off in a flurry of attacks and retaliating strikes, using raw strength and ferocity.

Riven finds no disappointment in her new foe. This Blood Viper is holding her ground quite well, maneuvering the weight of such a large weapon around her body with ease. Every swing is dealt with conviction; a certainty born out of drive and bloodthirst. One could classify her as a berserker of sorts, only with a cool head, making her far more lethal than one that relies on pure rage.

Their surroundings begin taking a toll as blades sheer across the walls, cutting and crumbling the rock around them. The two stay mobile, leaping and dashing with every swing. Riven feels like she is in the League again, fighting a determinative battle where any moment can decide the victor.

A vicious cleave comes downward, directed at Riven's head. With a nimble dash out of the way, the blade runs through the lock of the gate, sending a heavily damaged door swinging open with a loud crack. The two find themselves fighting on the hoard of gold and riches, a slippery terrain that jingles with every step. Coins toss around them with the warriors' speedy movements, glittering and spinning in the air as their weapons clash in between.

Kirin takes a small leap back, winding her axe up behind herself. With an uppercut, she sends a shower of treasure hurling toward the Exile, causing the Noxian to shield her eyes. Using the underhanded tactic to grant her an opportunity, a heavy strike swings forth for a wide blow. Riven sees the attack coming just in time, barely managing to respond. The greenish glow of the runic blade flashes above, and upon a shout, releases a burst around the Exile.

A sudden daze hits the Blood Viper, and before she can counter, a somersaulting strike meteors down on her position. Using the pole of her axe to spare herself a fatal slice, Kirin crumples under the heft of the attack. She hits the pile of gold hard, and the force sends her sliding down the mound as the rustling of thousands of stolen coins sing her defeat.

Without wasting time, Riven leaps off the treasure. The tip of the broken blade pierces a barrel, and she pushes it down on its side. With a kick, she sends it rolling to the gate, explosive powder leaving a black trail in its wake. Using her sword for reach, she flips up a torch off its stand and catches it on her way out.

The mount of coins rustles loudly again as Kirin claws her way back up. "Run, rabbit, run. It makes no difference. Sooner or later, the snake always catches its prey…" she cackles through a bloody grin.

A rushing Exile sprints down the tunnel, hoping to make it in time. If they knew she was in here, do they also know the whereabouts of the prisoners? Could the League really have softened her to the point of not being aware that she was being followed? Was loaning her strength to a little girl in desperation crippling her? It doesn't matter. The course she has chosen would remain the same, given the chance to decide again. This is _her_ choice…her path to redemption.

She turns around, and with a mighty flick of her arm, sends the blazing torch into the dim abyss behind her. Riven resumes her dash toward the moonlit end of the tunnel, and the fiery device skips across the ground. As the torch rolls, the flames catch onto the black powder, sparking a line of crackling combustion. Within moments, an explosion thunders from behind the Noxian, and fire devours the darkness behind her. She reaches the end of the cavern, and dives to the side, just out of the way of a conflagrating inferno. Rock and rubble spew out, rocketing into the celebrating crew of Blood Vipers.

Ash and smoke cloud the scene of clamor and panic. The brigands scramble, screaming of an attack on their stronghold. They drop their tankards and wineskins, stumbling out of the way of fiery projectiles. Riven cuts through the chaos with a sharp edge, trying to get a view of the stables.

The door has been splintered and torn off its hinges, and the wagon is missing. Her eyes dart back and forth through the crowd, looking for Cecilia and the others. With the tremors of the earth and loud shouting, the brutal members of the stronghold swarm wildly back and forth, arming themselves while fleeing from falling rocks. The ominous sound of heavy, distant rumbling from above begins to enter the scene. Riven glances upwards, spotting a rockslide incoming from the surrounding mountains, triggered by the preceding explosion.

"Ceclia!" shouting for a response.

A high-pitched scream answers her call, and the Noxian's eyes shoot in its direction. There's the cart, being driven in a wild circle around the stronghold. Erin has lost control and is barely hanging onto the reins. Rampaging horses run through everything in their path in a fear-induced frenzy. The passengers manage to cling on for their lives; the lower halves of their bodies being tossed around like rag dolls with each sharp turn. Hacking and slashing her way through obstacles, Riven sets a course to intercept the trampling steeds.

Cutting through a pair of brigands standing in her way, she hops onto a wooden table, and knocks over the remaining scraps of a devoured feast as she runs along the length of it. A well-timed leap, and she catches onto the side of the out-of-control cart. The Exile pulls herself onto the seat, proceeding to take the reins from a panicking Erin.

Noxian might tugs at the straps, pulling hard, and demands control from the stallions. A strong yank, and the cart takes a sharp, halting turn, causing the wagon to lean and skitter across two wheels. Sliding along the ground, a hard slam against a handful of Blood Vipers corrects the wagon's position. The pair of horses attached to the vehicle buck on their hind legs, whinnying loudly at the crumbling surroundings. A no-nonsense whip of the leather straps, and the cart begins to rocket ahead, toward the stronghold's exit.

Boulders and waves of dirt crash down around them on all sides, like a violent storm of earth instead of wind and rain. The last of the hay on the wagon flies off with the speed, leaving a fluttering trail of golden straws in its wake. Constant tossing back and forth causes a spell of dizziness in Cecilia. As vertigo takes its hold on her, so does a Blood Viper.

Pulling up next to them with the loud popping of a motor is the leader of the bandits, riding aboard a strange, three-wheeled machine. The oversized wheels make it stand tall, and a sleek, clock-work design forms its body. A devious grasp takes the defenseless girl off the wagon, hoisting her onto the mechanical revolution. She pulls slightly away as the two vehicles race to escape the stone hamlet.

"Cecilia!" a mother, scared for her child, flutily reaches out.

Riven glares with clenched jaws. How can Kirin still be alive? Magic? A secret passage? It doesn't matter… She cannot be allowed to get away!

The ex-soldier forces the reins into Erin's hands. "Keep it steady."

With that, she enters a dangerous game, posing herself at the edge of the wagon's seat. Kirin gives her a challenging stare, that taunting grin still painted across her face. Timing is everything. If she jumps too early, the axe-wielding Viper can pull away, letting Riven fall to her demise. However, if she waits too long, the Piltover Roadrunner will acquire the lead, becoming impossible to catch by horse.

With all the focus of her training, Riven waits for the perfect moment. The crying of the little girl tightens the grip on her blade with every tear. Locking eyes in a duel of anticipation and reflexes, the two warriors stare off. They feel every bump in the road as they cross over, calculating to themselves.

A daring feat, Riven's sandals propel off the wooden chassis. She lands on the back of the giant, motorcycle-like invention. Cascading boulders smash into the ground between the two transports, causing them to diverge further apart. Kirin cackles at the opportunity to fight again, and revs up the handlebar to full-throttle, leaving Erin and the others behind.

The Exile hangs on to the back of the roadrunner with one hand, her feet planting themselves on the large mufflers by the rear wheel. The wind runs wildly through her hair as they continue to accelerate, and she swiftly thinks over her options.

"Riven!" the little blonde girl cries out, restrained by the back of her dress.

This thing has to come to a stop, and as risky as it might be, there's only one way she knows how to get things done: by force. The white-haired Noxian jams the broken blade into the body of the vehicle, hoping to hit something vital to slow it down.

A sudden jerk to the right gives a promising start. Riven continues to pierce the machine, twisting the sword for the most damage in each strike. Sparks and whirring start off a series of odd and foreboding sounds. An irked, yet amused Kirin begins to take sharp left and right turns, attempting to shake the hijacking wanderer off.

Riven can feel them losing velocity, and she relentlessly continues her efforts. One more strike, and…bingo! Thick, blue fluid begins leaking and sputtering out behind them, leaving a translucent, splattering trail.

"Hahahaha! This is the ride of a lifetime!" an excited shout of a madwoman rings out.

"It's over!"

A powerful arm thrusts the blade into the wide spokes of the rear wheel, acting like a forceful brake. The revolutions of the tire begin to tear itself apart as the sword remains fixated into place. Riven releases it to allow a quick maneuver against Kirin. She swiftly climbs up and over the Blood Viper, landing a tiger-like grip on the pressure-point between the shoulder and neck. With her other hand, she grabs one of the handlebars, trying to steer in favor of her plan.

Exerting her strength on Kirin and her roadrunner, Riven leans back so that the damaged wheel grinds itself out of place. Something gives way, and sparks begin to shower behind them in a bright blanket of yellow as they rapidly decelerate.

With a devious laugh, the sinister brigand tosses Cecilia off, sending her into the air. The little Piltie screams, and Riven's honed skills take over. With the same lack of fear of injury or death that led her to become Noxus' former posterchild, Riven leaps for the innocent child.

She catches her, and while holding tight, the two tumble across the dusty Ironspike terrain. Bruised and battered, the Exile begins lifting herself up with her arm. Auburn eyes open to see a very scared, disoriented girl beneath her. Shivering and scuffed, but otherwise unharmed, Cecilia looks back.

Riven lets out a sigh of relief, and with a labored strain, rises to her feet. The sea of sparks crashes into the side of the mountain across from them. A vicious Blood Viper stands atop the lopsided roadrunner, apathetic to the combusting pieces of machinery below her feet.

With the enormous axe in her clutches, Kirin steps down from the demolished vehicle. "Now, the real fun begins."

She grabs the lodged blade and yanks it out of the wreckage, giving the Noxian a sly smirk. For the sake of more excitement, Kirin hurls the blade at Riven's feet, letting it land sticking out of the ground.

Holding her side, the Exile steps forth and reclaims her runic sword with a large gauntlet. Scratches and scrapes from Riven's journey so far bleed along her arms and legs. A ruthless resolve, always finding itself when pressed in combat, turns her mind away from the pain. Right now, all she can think about is eliminating this threat before her.

Fierce eyes lock, and the skirmish begins. The two lunge forth, and their weapons meet with devastating force. Echoes reverberate in the narrow gorge with each strike. Giant, war-born weapons face off in a brutal display of raw strength and ferocity. White, chemical-induced scars and red tattoos pit experience and form against each other. Both women, hardened by time and battle, savagely break the ground around their footing. Blades divert each other, sparking as they grind across, edge-to-edge.

At the first opening, Riven raises her sword above herself, letting out a runic discharge. Kirin responds by leaping straight into the air, out of the range of the burst of Ki energy.

"Not this time!" she comes back down, hammering the ground with her axe.

The Exile leaps back, dodging the attack. Jagged stones of the ground bounce upward with the heft of the assault, and Kirin flashes a menacing glance at Cecilia. Before gravity can claim back the rubble, the devilish axe swings forth, sending the improvised projectiles toward the little girl with lethal velocity.

Going against her instincts and training, Riven lurches out in the path of the missiles. The volley of rocks explodes into powder with the immense force behind them, devouring the Exile in a haze of dust and sediment.

"Riven!" the young Piltovan cries out.

The Blood Viper laughs, retiring her axe to a restful position at her feet. A small breeze that funnels through the ravine gently wisps away the cloud of pulverized rock, and her Cheshire smile fades slightly.

Riven stands, unfazed by the cheap shot. Four large runes of green rotate around her, like echoes of the lost fragments of her blade. One by one, they dissolve away in an orderly fashion until they are called for again.

"That's a fancy trick," the leader of the bandits brings her axe over her shoulder. "I've had enough fun for now. I think I'll save some for another time… **Think fast!** "

Using her axe like a golf club, Kirin sweeps low at the demolished roadrunner. With a loud scraping, the vehicle shreds across the ground toward the Noxian and Piltie. The sparks ignite a trail of fuel, and a blaze of fire follows the screeching metal.

Continuing her streak of protectiveness, quite contrary to her nature, Riven springs into action. She dives for Cecilia, tackling her into a shallow hole in the path just behind them. With a fluid motion, she rolls back to her feet, and poises her sword upward, then cleaves downward with all her might.

The glowing blade passes right through the roadrunner, severing it in half. Two separate pieces of speedy technology part ways around the two as the trail of flames catches up to them. A pair of explosions ignites their surroundings as the remains of the vehicle skip along the ground, tumbling into the wall of the ravine. Heat and tongues of flame wave over the heads of the Cecilia and her savior—the dip in the road providing them with a very narrow escape.

Riven perks straight back up, ready to end the conflict. A brief scan of the area reveals no Kirin in sight. The death-defying woman with such strength and skill—prowess definitely not acquired by pillaging merchant convoys, raises many questions in her mind.

"Cecilia!" a distant voice approaches amidst the distinct sound of galloping hooves.

Wooden axels roll to a halt beside the two, and a worried mother jumps out to embrace her daughter. Riven, out of her comfort-zone yet again, silently helps the little girl out of the scorched hole, and begins stepping away. A quick look at the stars in the night sky for direction, and the Exile begins resuming her path to Piltover.

"Miss Riven!" a little voice calls out.

Cecilia breaks free from her mother's grip, and the pitter-patter of her shoes trails up to the Noxian. The clasp of a little hug around her leg catches Riven off guard.

"What are you—?"

"Where are you going, Miss Riven?"

She looks into the teary-eyes staring up at her. "…I have to be somewhere."

"Where?"

"Just…somewhere," not wanting to mention Piltover and give her hope of meeting again. It would be better that way…

"Why?" innocence persists.

"I just have to go, okay!?" Riven says coldly, closing herself off to keep a distance. A response born of immense guilt and much reflection.

"…M-miss Riven…?" startled at her raised voice.

The self-exile sighs. "…I'm sorry… I—"

"It's okay…" she sniffles, then looks up with a smile. "That's what Legends do, right?"

"What?" a flash of worry of finally being recognized.

"You beat up the bullies for mom and me! Legends have to travel to all sorts of places to do that, right?"

Riven chuckles slightly, her coldness dissolving into a faint grin.

"I am forever in your debt, Miss Riven," Erin expresses her gratitude.

"You're not in—"

"Er…thank you, Miss Riven," following his aunt's example, Marcus sheepishly approaches, and bows slightly. "I apologize for my inexcusable behavior towards you earlier."

"Thank you for saving us, Miss Riven," Cecilia gives a small curtsy.

The infamous Noxian, with mixed feelings of not being known to this family for who she really is, can only give a silent nod before turning away. With her sword in-hand, haunting memories in her mind, and a stirring inside of her soul, she resumes her journey to Piltover.

Choosing to fight for someone else's behalf causes a new, vastly unfamiliar feeling to wash over her. Is this what Ephrial does? Is this what it feels like to be a 'mercenary-knight'? To loan one's strength to another; a purpose for the sake of others rather than for one's own ascension in social status.

Is this…what redemption feels like…?

Today has made a difference in several lives. In saving a little girl and her mother, Riven has taken a direct step in atoning for her past misdeeds. The thought of how many families she has destroyed drives a stake in her heart, but her steps do not waver. She cannot stop to pity herself—she doesn't deserve to. Only the road ahead holds any possibility for change… A change to reverse the monstrous tyranny she helped set in motion.

A realization has opened up for her, amidst a sea of fleeting uncertainties. Rather than questioning why she is drawn to Piltover at the request of a man she hasn't known for long, she just _feels_ she must. If this is truly an example of what he has made his purpose for…of his intentions for seeking her out…then perhaps she truly can find a way to atone for herself. After all, Ephrial is the very first and only person that has offered her any form of aid in her endeavor; a Noxian-Ionian mix that has endured prejudice from a nation that resents his very existence, and has willingly put himself at risk of becoming a target for those that want her head.

The brew of irony and guilt is just too much for her to process all at once. For now, all she can think of is making it to Piltover. Whatever lies there can only lead to another step toward redemption.

She takes out the fried piece of circuitry that serves as their first real clue. Riven clutches it, seeing it as not only a vital object concerning their investigation, but as a seed of trust given only to her. Ephrial could have brought it to the others' attention at the Crystal Scar, but he only included her in it. Even after everything she has done, he has the nerve to trust _her_ of all people. Perhaps she really can rely on him…an odd notion considering she has only ever truly counted on herself. At the same rate, he, too, has chosen to believe in her. It would be a foolish, fatal mistake to throw that away.

Under the veil of a starry night, Riven continues toward the City of Progress, leaving one more doubt behind.


	28. Chapter 28: Firestorm

**-  
Chapter 28**

 ** _Firestorm_**

City lights gleam ahead, brightly filling the night's horizon with a dazzling scene of modern technology. Piltover lies straight ahead, like an enormous lighthouse, with a variety of different colors blinking and flashing in the distance. Towering buildings stretch for the sky, and zeppelins of different shapes and sizes float majestically in the air. The faint sound of clanging and giant clockwork ticks from the mechanical marvels that turn heavily, endlessly working to keep things running in the giant machine that is the City of Progress.

A hint of grease reaches Riven's nose as she reaches the edge of a plateauing hill, setting her eyes on the nightlife ahead. She has arrived at the last stretch of her trek to Piltover, and she takes in the view of the future-in-the-making. This city-state has always been home to scientists, scholars, and the curious. Many adventurers seek this place in hopes of finding knowledge, and never leave disappointed. Some view Piltover as a business to invest in, while others see it as a beacon of hope to solve the problems of the struggling commoner. Right now, the gaze of a veteran sees the next step in finding those behind the assault on the Institute.

The Exile sighs. "I'm here… Just how am I supposed to find him in all of _that_?"

"There you are…!" a disgruntled voice calls from the side.

"You…!? Why are you—?"

A wandering swordsman stares at her with fury. Scuffs and tears across his clothing tell of recent strife in his latest travels. The large pauldron on his shoulder suffers new scratches and dents, having taken its share of a beating.

"Enough! Raise your blade… It's time to face your reckoning!" Yasuo unsheathes his katana, a scowl of dead seriousness strewn across his face.

"I don't have time for this!"

"You're right… You're all out of time. There are no Summoners to save you here!"

"I don't need saving!"

"Pah! Is that why you're running from your past? Only the guilty run."

"It seems you should know."

"I **am** guilty! There is blood on my hands that can never be washed off… Yet, I will reclaim my honor with **_yours_**!"

"Killing me will not bring you any honor. I was not the one that killed your elder!"

"Let your blade do the talking! Or has it run out of lies?"

"A broken blade is more than enough for the likes of you!"

Tempers flare, and blades poise with razor edges. A steady wind blows through the area, tickling the grass and brushing leaves around them. It seems to stream around Yasuo, whirling around his very blade. A greenish glow wraps around the runic sword of the Exile, charged with Ki energy.

Eyes narrow, and the wind around them slows. A single leaf flutters between them, descending like the countdown for a decisive duel. The rivalry between suspicion and suspect meets on a battlefield of a technologically-illuminated night sky. As the article of foliage drops, the tension rises. With the weightless touch on the grass, the two leap forward, and the scene flashes like lightning. Blades collide, and confusion washes over them.

"What…!?" the Unforgiven, taken by surprise.

A bright light erupts from the side, and a streak of bright red intervenes, placing itself between the contesting swords. Staying the katana's gale force is a longsword of fiery assertion. The runic blade retracts in bemused familiarity, and a small flurry of fluttering white particles of frozen precipitation only presses the confusion further.

"Ephrial…!? How did you—!? Is…is that snow!?"

"You!? I had heard about another searching for her… This is not your fight! If you have a bone to pick with Riven, you can have what's left over after I'm finished!" Yasuo grits.

"She's off limits," the Blazing swordsman states with a calm fervor.

The two break off their sword-lock, leaping back a step with their opposing force.

"I will not be denied my honor!"

"Honor, huh? Is that really something you can take back after what you've done?"

"You know nothing about my past!"

"I know enough. The Institute likes to keep a rather detailed record of us, starting with their invasive Judgement session… Some more well-guarded than others. Yours was interesting, to say the least."

"You know the truth, then? That I was not the one who killed my master?"

"Yes. I know of your innocence in that matter."

"Then stand aside!"

"I've no intentions of allowing you to engage her."

"Ephrial, I don't need you to fight my battles for me!" Noxian pride scolds.

"Apologies, Riven. I'll have to insist that I cut in on this dance."

"You would defend this slaughterer…? _You,_ who know the destruction Noxus brings? What this monster has done!?"

"…I would defend the one that would sooner forsake herself for her mistakes, rather than assign the blame to others."

"Hmph… Just another fool running into my blade. Very well, then… **Face the wind!** "

The two men of resolve lunge forward, blades meeting with frightening speed and impact. Wind and fire swirl on all sides, dancing around the warriors in a growing squall. Each slash answers another, echoing out like thunder in a maelstrom of intensity. Riven can only watch at a fair distance, being kept at bay by the elemental forces that dance wildly with each ferocious flash of a blade.

"Why are you in my way!? Surely you should know something about honor. Or are those that refer to you as some sort of 'knight' just mistaken?" Yasuo lashes his wind-sewn techniques.

"You and your contrived version of 'honor'… Have you forgotten those you have slain on the path to prove your innocence?" the Blazing swordsman counters.

"Do not speak of my brother! You are not even worthy of speaking his name!" wrathful strikes becoming heavier.

"Not just him. The warriors sent after you; some of Ionia's best, judging by the praise behind their names. Call them assassins if you will, but they did not deserve to die at the hands of someone who is supposedly innocent. Even before them, how many of your own kin have you killed, knowing their course was set by a false accusation? You had long become guilty of the very crime you have been seeking acquittal from."

"Is that what you think? Funny thing happens when you're facing people that want you dead… _Somebody always dies_."

"If they wanted you dead that badly, they must have **really** not liked you. You fought on their side, in plain sight, and they _still_ did not question to brand you as a traitor. That can only mean you had quite a rough relationship with your people, prior to abandoning your duty to guard your elder."

The prod to Yasuo's pride causes a storm to brew in his blade. Wind swirls around the sword, like a tempest begging to be unleashed. "You were not there!"

Ephrial's blade flares up, slashing forward to meet the attack-head on. A violent explosion howls, spreading around them in a song of storm and fire. Shielding barriers of their respective elements stand their ground inside the cyclone of flames, wavering in the state between thriving and fading with the simultaneous forces.

"The League's Judgement record stated that you didn't know the true nature of the accusation against you until _after_ you killed your brother. Either you had a very serious history of breaking some trust, or the honor of your entire tribe finds itself dubious if they did not explain why you were their suspect. Nothing about that sits right, especially if you were entrusted with the elder's protection to start with."

"I've no need to explain myself to a dead man," Yasuo growls.

The two rapidly launch themselves across the scorched ground, dashing at and around each other in a frenzy. Swords scrape and clash with sparking collisions, bursting with decisive precision.

"All this talk from a person who had someone of his own to protect…and failed!" the Unforgiven jabs.

"I did not leave her side for the sake of pride!"

"Abandonment is all the same, if you ask me. You didn't _have_ to leave your sister. Your people weren't engaged in an all-out war!"

"No…not war. Just an all-out slaughter _before_ the war had started. Unlike you, we did not have an army to defend ourselves with. We didn't have people we could trust. Can you say the same?!"

Fueled by passionate resolves born of death and tragedy, the two cleave forward, locking swords in a tight embrace of raw determination.

"I journeyed out to find a peaceful place, even if I had to make one myself. It was my _duty_. You abandoned yours out of a sense of arrogance!" Ephrial presses his blade.

"You still failed in the end! Tell me…what is it you fight for _now_?"

"Justice…no matter the cost!"

"Hah! 'Justice'!? That's a pretty word. You're just like me; a wanderer searching for a killer, chased by his own people, and bent on ending things with the edge of a sword."

"Only I actually know who— _what_ killed my sister! I'm not going by some accusation with flimsy evidence I hadn't seen with my own eyes!"

"Flimsy!? What other wind blade could have killed my master!?"

"Had it ever occurred to you or anyone in your village that he had died by his own hand?"

"Ridiculous!"

"Is it? With all these men, women, and creatures of mysterious power constantly being discovered, it is truly out of the question that one could have killed your master?"

The two push off each other's blade, panting from a decisive skirmish that presses them past their limits, both already severely worn from their respective travels.

"You just said that he may have killed himself… Now you're saying otherwise?"

"I'm saying there is far too much unexplained, and your prime suspect isn't even the stealthy, assassin-type. With all of the oddities fighting within the League itself, is it not possible that such a being that can mimic, or even deflect such wind-based assaults, resulting in your elder's demise?"

"That's…!"

"Enough!" Riven asserts herself in between them, cleaving her blade into the ground. "I am not running from this!" She turns to Yasuo, "If that's your way, then I have no choice…"

"There are more pressing matters to attend to, Riven," Ephrial keeps a watchful eye on the Unforgiven's blade.

Yasuo retakes a battle stance. "If she is truly innocent, then let her sword do the talking. Only one of us can be allowed to walk in this world!"

"Stand aside, Ephrial. This is not something you can stop."

The Blazing Swordsman examines the gazes of the two. They stand as hunter and hunted, yet both locked in a cage where the bars are their misdeeds and the lock is unbridled guilt.

"I see. Very well, then…" he says. "However, it will have to be at another time!"

With a quick motion, he snaps his hand from out of a small pouch on his belt, launching a small object at Yasuo. The keen and deadly reflexes of the Unforgiven locks onto the projectile, and a drawing slice splits it down the middle in the air.

"What the—!?" his expression changes in the middle of the strike.

A bright light flashes over Yasuo, and a vortex engulfs his presence in a blink. With that, the only trace of him that remains is a small gust of dispersing wind, carrying a leaf off into the distance.

"What did you do!?" Riven angrily shoots him a look.

"I put a raincheck on this whole thing. No need to worry. He'll be fine back in Ionia."

"Ionia…!? How?"

"The same way I got here so fast," thumbing behind himself, at a circular pad of stone that serves as a node for the teleportation tablets marked for Piltover. "A fancy little magic trick cooked up in the Institute. Speaking of which, we should carry on while there still is an Institute to save. The last thing we need are more out-of-control wars spurring off what's happening," keeping the history of tensions in Runterra in mind.

Riven snorts, still irked by his interference. However, she knows he's right. If she is to at all accomplish her endeavor to restore Noxus, it cannot be done without the Institute at this point. It would be even more impossible to do so in the midst of a continent full of warring nations. The Exile calmly puts aside her frustration and begins walking to the lively city below them.

Side by side, the two quietly resume their suspended travels. Weighing on each of their minds are questions and concerns that drive them forward, urging them to seek answers and a way to preserve their missions.

"…I'm glad you made it here in one piece," the mercenary-knight breaks the silence.

"…I don't know if it's accurate to say the same about you. It seems you've _barely_ made it here without losing a limb," acknowledging his rough condition.

"A fair statement. I suppose I could do with a bandage or two later," his voice softening in weariness.

"Are you going to explain to me just how you came out of nowhere? Or what these 'errands' of yours were?" feeling flustered with mixed consternations, especially with the dramatic event that occurred spontaneously just moments ago.

Drained of energy from an excruciatingly demanding slew of objectives, Ephrial begins blacking out. Adrenaline no longer sustaining him, he falls forward to a knee, too exhausted to utter anything. The Blazing Swordsman collapses over, and slips into the depths of unconsciousness caused by severe overexertion.

"Ephrial?!" Riven, taken by surprise.

She swiftly kneels down, reaching for his neck to check for a pulse. It's faint, but he's still breathing. The Exile can only imagine what sort of stress he has endured, noting the present state of his armor in comparison to when she saw him last.

Noxian eyes look toward the City of Progress, then back at Ephrial, gauging the distance left to travel. She sighs, hoisting the unconscious swordsman's arm over her shoulder, while keeping a grip on her own hefty blade. Hunching slightly, she begins dragging Ephrial along to Piltover, step by step. A tempered body manages to move fairly easily. It is almost like marching with heavy weights back in her days at boot camp, or lifting the former heft of her blade along with the rest of her missing armor.

With a steel gaze set on the technological horizon ahead, Riven now lends her strength to the man that has spent his on her behalf. Though she is normally apathetic to those that fall behind, much due to her military background, she makes an exception. In her mind, this is the least that she can do. Yet, an unfamiliar sense of uneasiness settles upon Riven. As a solitary warrior that has cut herself off from all ties to her past, she is extremely far from having known what it is to repay someone, much less to have ever known what it means to feel indebted.

All she has ever been taught is the strength to survive, concerned with no lives other than her own. That's how it is in Noxus, after all. Everyone has to watch out for themselves, and only themselves. Though, she suspects an exception to that rule may be right beside her, after hearing the mentions of his sister in the unanticipated skirmish.

Auburn eyes glance over at the face of the mercenary-knight, lost in a forced slumber. The flare of anger at him for intervening dissolves, and she titters with a slight grin, gently shaking her head with amusement.

"You're not the first in the League that I've had to carry."


	29. Chapter 29: One Small Favor

**-  
Chapter 29**

 ** _One Small Favor_**

Slowly, his eyelids open, letting in a blurry light. A few blinks, and his vision readjusts to see a bright, luminescent crystal hanging on the ceiling above. With a calm level of alertness, Ephrial sits upright on a large couch, and takes a look around unfamiliar surroundings. Fine wood and ornate wallpaper decorate the walls in warm colors. A teak desk sits in the corner, cluttered with books and unfinished devices subject to tinkering. The floor is lain with a lavish carpet of crimson, sewn with a decorative insignia of a sigil of magic and a large cog, signifying the union of magic and technology as one.

"You're finally awake," a strong, yet somehow soft voice calls over.

The mercenary-knight turns his head, and sees Riven sitting next to a lit fireplace.

Ephrial smirks, bringing his hand to his forehead to brush off the weariness. "Took a little nap, did I? Apologies…" offering no excuse, hoping to keep off the subject that would perhaps be best unknown to her for the time being.

"You've been asleep for sixteen hours."

"Huh…I see. I suppose it was much more than a 'little' nap. Thank you for bringing me here."

The Exile turns her gaze back to the fire, seemingly ignoring the notion of gratitude.

"…Where is 'here', exactly?"

Riven stands up, hoisting her blade with her. "We're in the Academy of Science and Progress. I have already explained everything to Heimerdinger."

"I see. Then he's bound to have made some progress already."

"I'm not so sure."

"Why is that…? Is it because we're not exactly trustworthy, with Noxus being affiliated with Zaun's activities?" bringing up a growing rivalry.

"He didn't say much. Only that we should see him once you've awakened."

"Well, let's not keep the Revered Inventor waiting."

The two exit the room, stepping into the large halls of the esteemed academy. Large paintings of history's most notable and accomplished inventors and scientists decorate the walls. Yordles hold a strong presence, roaming the ornate carpets with the robes and posture of educated scholars. One might confuse this place with a museum at first glance, considering the numerous cased displays and plaques of inventions set amidst a silent, contemplative ambience.

"They sure went all-out on this place," Ephrial takes in his surroundings.

"Ah, you must be the guests I was told about. Welcome, welcome!" a voice approaches from behind.

The swordsmen turn to see a yordle looking up at them. With his fur neatly groomed, hair parted, and a tiny blue suit embroidered with the establishment's emblem, he stands with a lively dignity. The lenses of his spectacles hover in front of his eyes, being held in place by the Hextech involved with the frames without even touching them.

"Who might you be?" the mercenary-knight asks.

"Oh, forgive me. Just where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself! I am Kip Von Minstrelburg, at your service," giving a formal bow. "I am in charge of managing much of Mister Heimerdinger's organized and personal matters."

"Heimerdinger's secretary, huh?"

"I'm an associate," adjusting his glasses with a straight-faced glare.

"Can you take us to him?" Riven asks plainly.

"I have been sent to do exactly that, yes. Though, I must say it is rather… _peculiar_ to get visitors of such…stature," eyes running along the edge of a broken blade bigger than his body. "Even for him. You two must have some urgent business if he has cancelled so many appointments. Right then! Come, follow me!"

Kip takes the lead, walking ahead of them in the hall. Tiny whispers and murmuring can be heard, passing through the lips of onlooking passersby. The walls open to a large section connecting several others in a grand fashion of intricate design. An enormous hologram is mounted on a large inclination, surrounded by the spiraling banisters of a twin staircase leading to the same place. The transparent, blue light displays the globe surrounded by several cogs rotating around it, sigils of the arcane arts etched along the rims. A banner, using the same optic display, revolves in a circle above the planet, reading: "THE DREAMS OF TODAY ARE THE KEYS TO TOMORROW."

"Heimerdinger has made some quite… _curious_ friends, to say the least. While some have aspired to pick his brain for some technological insight, I must say…you two do not strike me as the 'seeker of knowledge' types."

"As a matter of fact, that's exactly why we're here. Tell me, as someone who is closely involved with much of Heimerdinger's affairs, have you come across anything that stands out? Perhaps something in the realm of…mind control?" Ephrial begins conducting his investigation.

"Well, I would be hard-pressed to imagine the Inventor being involved with anything less than anomalous. However, even I find such subjects as neurological manipulation a little out of place from my employer's work. Exactly what sort of visitation is this, pray tell?"

"It's League business," Riven says stiffly, keeping the inquiries in one direction.

"Ah, yes. Yes, of course. Apologies if I have forgotten my place. Perhaps, I too, may find myself privy to the wonders kept within the League's circle one day."

"Forgive us if we appear to be slightly uptight. It has been quite a rough journey just to get this far. Thank you for your hospitality, including the touch-ups," Ephrial examines the miniature bandages that wrap his arm, wondering how many tiny rolls were required.

"You are most welcome, though, I must apologize that we could not do more. We would have taken you to our facility that is far more suited for physical examination, however, your partner was rather adamantly… _insistent_ that you remained within her sight at all times."

"Is that so?" a glance over to his side.

Riven remains silent, as if purposely ignoring the conversation entirely.

"While we very well possess the capacity to treat humans, I'm afraid that not all of our rooms are spacious enough to accommodate more than one. Especially alongside a team of yordle specialists with some very delicate, and _very_ expensive, equipment present."

"I am grateful all the same."

The group ascends one of the winding staircases that curls around the gargantuan hologram of their home. Each step is wide, and divided into strips where two of them are yordle-sized, running alongside those large enough to accommodate humans without tripping them. The knightly mercenary absorbs the environment, viewing the level of detail and articulation with admiration and perspective analysis. It's a sight with a staggering amount of effort put into every stone and crystal. Such precision of measurement and planning could have only taken place with the most advanced of tools and technology, like that of the League itself. However, unlike the Institute, born almost entirely out of magic, the very union of magic and metal can be seen visibly in every square foot of this place. The collective minds of two brands of genius have put the common ground that connects them together into an artwork of unlimited potential and possibilities.

Ephrial's eyes narrow in thought, wondering just what creations have yet to take form. Though currently in a very limited variety, he has had run-ins with some articles of destruction born of Hextech. A few sidearms here and there on his adventures, and the more leading-edge designs of the revolver and gunblade in the League, have stirred thoughts in the mercenary's mind. Just what breakthroughs and advancements lie ahead? What conflict and wars will result from them? As intelligent as all those behind the revolutionary brand of engineering are, it doesn't take a genius to know that there will _always_ be those that would use it for conquest. The Crystal Scour is but one example in a future filled with many to come.

The party summits the top of the stairs and begins moving down a short hallway, toward two large doors without doorknobs or handles. Rather, they are made of negatron-infused metal, with a glossy finish.

"Here we are," their guide announces their destination. "Before we enter, I must caution you to mind any wandering hands. There is much within these walls that remains unstable, or for the sake of straightforwardness, **volatile**."

The walking ball of well-tailored fur reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out a slim slab of glowing crystal. He inserts the green keycard into a slot on the terminal, attached to the door at yordle-height. With a small humming and whirring, the doors come to life. Lines of red appear all over the door, running along at sharp angles like that of active circuitry. Accepting the security verification, they turn green, and the doors part open with a swift swishing sound.

Proceeding forward down a dark tunnel, lit only by a mixture of crystals and wires that run along transparent walls, they come across another barrier. Kip approaches a second terminal, craning his head forward. The machine turns active, and a lens reveals itself with the sliding of a panel. A grid of lasers emits from it, scanning the yordle's eye in a brief two seconds. With the same friendly response as the previous set of blast doors, the passage opens.

Riven and Ephrial glance at each other, each thinking the same thing. With such high level of security, there must be something worth guarding under close wraps within. Perhaps the only place more protected than this is the League's Vault. Firm, yet wary steps follow the associate of the Academy inward.

The room is very well lit with a network of hextech fluorescent lights above. Workbenches, tables, and sections of the floor lie littered with nuts and bolts. Odd devices and unfinished machinery create an environment where the wanderers feel as if they are literally walking into the future.

They approach a sound of zapping, and from around the corner of a large chalkboard covered in various equations, they begin seeing sparks skip across the ground. With a few more steps, the Revered Inventor comes into view, armed with a welder's mask and blowtorch. Raw machinery hangs on chains and pulleys in front of him, far too early in its development to be discernable as to what it may be.

"Many pardons, sir, but your esteemed guests have arrived!" Kip announces their presence.

"Yes, yes, very good. Thank you, Kip. Your services are appreciated," the technological genius says in his consistently fast-paced enthusiasm.

"Thank you, Master Heimerdinger. It is an honor—"

"That will be all. You are dismissed now, Kip," removing the mask and putting down the torch.

"…Y-yes, of course."

Cerulean eyes watch as the associate withdraws inward, and silently strides out of the grease-ridden workshop.

"Have you made any progress?" an eager Riven asks.

"Progress is a relative term, to define moving forward in a given circumstance. No, I would think it would be more appropriate to say we have only moved sideways."

" _Sideways_?" Ephrial's curiosity piques.

The inventor moves toward a yordle-high workbench, covered in diagrams and pieces of machinery-to-be. A space has been cleared, where a large set of magnifying lenses hang poised above the recovered chip brought to him by his Noxian visitors.

"I am afraid so. Indeed, I would say your hypothesis regarding this to be of Zaun origin to be somewhat reasonable. I have made calls to many of my fellow colleagues, and none of them have claimed to be involved with any neurological experiments that would enable cognitive apprehension of the conscious mind. Whomever is behind this device is years ahead of us in 'hexpertise'. It is quite befuddling! Befuddling indeed!"

"I see…" the mercenary-knight crosses his arms in thought.

"Has any news of the Institute reached Piltover?" Riven asks.

"Other than what you have explained to me, there have only been reports of malfunction and maintenance that has caused the League to cease operations for an undisclosed amount of time."

"Would I be correct in assuming you did not believe these reports?" Ephrial speaks again.

"Would oxygen and potassium be 'OK' together? Of course I knew it was false! The Institute performs regular maintenance, normally on Tuesdays, with a roughly consistent schedule. A malfunction of this magnitude is absolutely out of the question. Your presence here merely confirms my suspicions."

"Is there any way you can help us?"

"Hmm…" Heimerdinger contemplates a string of thought. "To aid you in a direct way would be impossible for me at the moment. As time will no doubt produce changes in circumstance as the situation develops, it would be best if I remain here to prepare for the worst-case scenario. However, there is a way you can help me provide you with some degree of assistance."

"What can we do?" Riven inquires, with a small degree of wariness.

"I have discovered something curious in the device you have brought to me. Upon closely scrutinizing the output diode, I have discovered that it is locked in place with a diminutive form of magnetic helix screws," inviting the two over to peer through the stack of magnifying glasses. "It is fortunate that they did not rupture, otherwise the contents inside would be lost beyond recognition."

Ephrial turns back to the inventor. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

"The only reason anyone would bother using such a brand of binding is if they did not want the insides to be discovered. Such devices must be removed by a specific tool to pull and hold the pin embedded inside the screw to keep it from detonating into shrapnel."

"I see. So inside might lie a clue as to who manufactured such a piece of hextech?"

"Precisely. Regrettably, I lack the proper equipment to disarm such a sensitive security measure."

"You want us to go get you one of these screwdrivers?" the Exile puts together.

"Correct. The task should be simple enough. I have placed an order for tool replacements two weeks ago, and they have not come in yet. With all the current events happening in Piltover, it would be a reasonable hypothesis that the delivery center has suffered some distress. If I may ask you the favor of retrieving my order personally, I would be able to produce some results for you in turn."

"Sounds fair enough. Where do we find this parcel service?" the mercenary-knight accepts the proposal.

"Hold on. Why can't you get this package yourself?" a distrusting Riven questions, having reservations of being sent out to do blind deeds.

"Much of the city has been locked down due to an uprising of rather explosive events these past days. The authorities have been investigating the source of the occurrences, believing them to be attacks. However, not even the slightest trace of evidence exists. The extremely careful precision of such events has Piltover's security taking acute measures in containing this stream of assaults. Therefore, I believe those with experience in running rogue, such as yourselves, would be more fitting for the task."

"I see. We're just expendable pawns in this turn of 'scratching backs'."

"I don't believe it is that simple, Riven."

The Exile turns to her partner, curious as at the lack of concern in his voice.

"A workshop can't run correctly without the proper tools. No self-respecting craftsman of Piltover, much less one with title of 'Revered Inventor', would tolerate such a long delay of an important shipment. Someone who has experienced, and at times, dominated the chaos of the Rift, would hardly see any of this terrorism in Piltover as an obstacle. Nothing can stand in the way of progress, after all," the perceiving gaze of oceanic blue stares through the heavy tint of Heimerdinger's goggles. "Then again, there's only so much one can do when they are being watched…isn't that right?"

"Your conjectures are startlingly accurate. Yes, indeed I believe myself to be under surveillance of some nature. My workshop is the only place I can guarantee confidentiality."

"How long has this been going on?"

"My first suspicions were invoked approximately two months ago."

"Around the same time you hired Kip?"

"Correct yet again. I hired young Kip Von Minstrelburg in order to conduct affairs that would otherwise require my personal presence. He has been an invaluable asset."

"Yet, you do not trust him. You would rather trust two Noxians that dropped on your doorstep."

"If you were in my shoes, who would **_you_** trust? Those that prize knowledge and technological advancement, or those that would sooner destroy both to protect very lives affected by it?"

With that, the swordsmen exchange quick glances and depart with a nod to their fellow League champion. Following their steps back, the partners walk to the exit, surrounded by mechanic marvels of odd shapes and various sizes. Ephrial takes one final look around, wondering what a genius would spend his time building during his own lockdown. They pass through the automatic blast doors, and begin heading down the spiraling staircase.

"…H-how…how do you do that?" Riven asks while keeping her eyes on the steps before them.

"How do I do what?" Ephrial responds, keeping his eyes peeled for spying eyes.

"How can you decipher so much of someone, including their intentions, in such a short time? …You already knew that was the question, didn't you?"

"Well, it's more important to hear people speak rather than always blatantly tell them what they're thinking. As for how I do it, it just comes with experience, I suppose. When you don't really have a voice in the world, it becomes a lot easier to hear others'. Even moreso, it becomes easier to hear their silence."

Though a direct response given in a cryptic fashion, Riven understands. She cannot comprehend the trials he has endured as a Noxian-Ionian living in the city-state that rejected him, as her feats were never suppressed like his. A tense confliction forms in her stomach, like a mixture of admiration and guilt. She is further unsettled by the thought what he has discerned of her, and what he has not revealed of it.

"If you don't mind, I have a question of my own to ask you," Ephrial interrupts the brief quietness.

"What is it?" she asks, hiding any trace of concern behind her stoic visage.

The mercenary knight turns his head toward her, flashing the slightest of grins. "How much of a fight did you have to put up to keep me from becoming their guinea pig for new medical inventions?"

Riven immediately turns her head away, averting the soul-piercing gaze. "It didn't take much." A thick gauntlet squeezes the grip of her sword just a bit. Continuing to stare off to the side, "Maybe I'm asking this too late, but…are you okay?"

"I am, thanks to you. Things could have been drastically different if I were left unconscious for sixteen hours somewhere outside of the city. So…thank you."

The Exile stirs inside, having asked the very question that it had first started with. To be thanked yet again, especially so shortly after her run-in with Cecilia, further brews the mixture of emotions that have been kept inside her for so long. It's been years since she felt someone depend on her…that she is even the type of person someone _can_ depend on. Not since her days in Noxus' army has Riven traveled with anyone but her own shadow.

Before she can muster an unexperienced attempt at a "you're welcome," a grumbling sound interrupts.

"Heh…I suppose it wouldn't hurt our investigation if we took a short stop to resupply ourselves," Ephrial raises a hand to his stomach, brushing off the slight embarrassment.

The ex-soldier quickly takes a peek in the pouch on her person, finding only disappointment that her own rations have run dry. She takes a guilty glance at the man next to her, seeing no trace of displeasure, nor a hint of vexation at her cold disposition since he woke up. She is reminded of her own promise to be easier to work with. Chagrin lets out in the form of a small sigh, finding it difficult to let down an isolating barrier set like steel within herself. Yet, she can only surmise that the very keen perception she witnessed is the same reason he pays her abrasiveness no mind.

Meanwhile, heavy thoughts run through Ephrial's head as well. With an arrangement made in hopes of some answers, he marches forward, contemplating what lies ahead. News of seemingly random destruction in Piltover, and Heimerdinger's paranoia, have only raised more questions. The City of Progress has always been one large, well-oiled machine. Business and politics are in constant motion; the citizens each serving as a piece in a collective function toward the future. Having a unique relationship with destiny, the Blazing Swordsman resolves himself against what twists and turns that await him.

The cogs of Piltover and Fate align, and time is the only thing that can tell which direction they will turn.


	30. Chapter 30: One Big Problem

**-  
Chapter 30**

 ** _One Big Problem_**

"Security is pretty tight," Ephrial presses his back against the dark corner of an alley as a drone floats by.

Riven joins him, watching their rear. "It can't be that effective if there's fear of an explosion at any given time."

"This part of the city has already been evacuated, so that saves us some trouble, at least. There's our destination," he nods toward the other side of the street.

With deft silence in their steps, they creep across the road behind the shade of an abandoned truck. The two crouch low, watching a pair of robotic feet that belong to Piltover's automated police step along the other side. As the patrol passes by, the partners slip ahead, avoiding the bright light of a streetlamp.

Police presence is heavy, but the number of living beings in the area runs thin. The night is ruled by search lights as floating sentries scan the area in a systematical pattern. They hover slowly, no lower than ten feet off the ground, each as big as a baby raptor. At the helm of each is the tireless gaze of a red lens, pivoting on a dome that allows for a full view at any angle. These flying submarines stalk the streets with a dull humming, like watchful eyes of silent wraiths roaming a ghost town.

Amidst them is the bulk of the Piltover police force. A vast number of Cybernetic Operatives of Piltover Security, or COPS for short, comb the streets on foot. Akin to their creators, they have a humanoid shape donned in riot gear, armed with standard issue hextech pistols. Like their flying allies, these units bear the lifeless stare of a crimson-tinted glass. Their movements mimic that of a living person, but are far more precise and direct; earnest and cold with the lack of hesitation in their programming.

Sneaking past a few more operatives, the partners dive for a pile of stacked crates from a shipment that had been left behind during evacuation. They lie without moving a muscle, patiently waiting as a drone whirrs by. The light emitted by it dims, and the pair pick themselves back up. Tracing along a brick wall covered in advertisements and graffiti, it's clear that this building is far older than most. They pass a large, worn poster of a classic hotrod, the slogan below, in a vintage font, reading: "Ride the Aether." A few steps further, and they reach a rolling gate used to receive and export shipments. Thick plates fold together like square scales, barring their passage.

"It's locked," Riven whispers plainly, having anticipated this as an inevitable obstacle. She raises her blade, preparing to open it by force.

"Wait! These drones are programmed to detect signs of forced entry. We can't just break the lock, leaving an inviting trail for them to follow us," the mercenary-knight stays her sword, and begins fidgeting with his belt.

"What do you propose, then?"

"We ask nicely," taking out two small, very thin tools.

"You carry a lockpick set with you…?"

"You don't?"

"I'm not a thief!"

"Well, we _are_ both here to break an entering to take something that doesn't belong to us."

"…I see your point."

"Besides, I mostly have these if I need to break _out_ of a place. Mostly."

A few subtle clicks, and Ephrial finishes coaxing the lock to release. The two carefully lift the door open and slide under, gently lowering it behind them. Buzzing bulbs connected to the city's power grid illuminate their surroundings. Even the walls teem with the grinding of gears inside of them. Around the room lie piles of undelivered crates of varying sizes and shapes. Mechanical claws dangle inertly above, and the belt of a large conveyer track that weaves around the outer edges of the room rests dormant.

"It looks like they left in a hurry," the Exile notes spilled contents of broken boxes and containers.

"Perhaps they were evacuated directly after a nearby explosion, as opposed to being part of a preventative measure."

"So, what do we do now…? We can't possibly check _all_ of these."

"There must be some sort of office in possession of a manifest. We should check there."

Pressing onward into the courier depot, they spot a room on top of several flights of stairs. A large window spans around the entire corner, allowing for view of the whole department.

"That seems like a promising start."

Riven points to a large break in where the stairs part ways, far too wide to jump over. "We'll have to figure out a way to close the gap."

"Hm…there must be a switch that operates that bridge somewhere close. We'll just hav—"

A distant thunder cracks out in another part of the city, loud enough for them to hear a muffled echo inside the depot. The lights flicker and dim, leaving them in the dark. The whirring machinery and clockwork behind the walls wind down with a sigh.

"Was that another explosion?"

"I'd say so… Perhaps the city's power plant found itself the target this time," Ephrial unsheathes his blade to act as a torch.

"What now?"

The mercenary-knight ponders for a moment before answering. "This building is clearly older than most. You heard the pistons and gears inside the walls, right? There aren't any such sounds inside the structures we've traversed along the way. If I had to guess, this place used to run on its own independent power supply, before Piltover expanded into a city-wide source. Perhaps in the basement, if anywhere."

They start down the nearby hallway, footsteps echoing in the ambience of a dead depot. Searchlights strobe down through small windows around the ceiling as a flurry of patrol units rush overhead, speeding in the direction of the explosion.

"You seem to know a lot about Piltover," Riven surmises at his quick solution.

"I've been here once or twice before."

"What did you do here?" becoming curious.

"Heh. Let's just say that the noble families here have a way of tangling some webs...and they're always seeking out those that would get their hands dirty for them."

"You did wetwork for them…!?"

Riven gives him a shocked look as they turn into a stone staircase that leads downwards, below ground level.

"While many of them so relentlessly implored me to do just that, no. It was an extraction."

"What do you mean?"

"The nobility here are always vying for control, using whatever underground resources they have at their disposal. Two families in particular became so heated that one had the other's daughter kidnapped. In the world of politics and control, it was the ultimate underhanded trick."

"Why didn't they just alert the police? The detective forces here are supposed to be quite superior."

"As we already know, things are quite different for those seated in power. Turns out, the system in Noxus isn't much different than in most places. The wealthy are held above the law, and the lower classes struggle to find, much less keep, a place in the city. It's just monetary dominance rather than strength, and barons instead of generals. Even so, there was a similar drift in power in Noxus before Darius went on a decapitating spree on the nobles there."

"So, they had to resort to the Underground?"

"Not quite. With their daughter held hostage, the Arvino family had no choice but to succumb to the demands of the Thatermauges. The nature of their leverage over them was well-known to the Underground, and because of that, the Thatermauges gained that much more influence. Even if they had invoked the aid of the police, it would only prove to be the Arvino's undoing, as they would no doubt turn up a lack of evidence in the Thatermagues' involvement of the kidnapping. Eventually, it would only expose the backroom deals of their own design. They needed an outside source with no connection to Piltover whatsoever."

"They hired you."

"You could say that. Sophia, being so young and kept sheltered all her life, was quite naïve to the nature of her father's business. The whole ordeal was quite a wake-up call for her. Once things were settled, the Thatermauges lost an immense amount of influence, and became a laughing stock amidst the Underground. I haven't exactly kept up with things since, but I'd imagine it would have been impossible to recover from the massive retaliation they faced thereafter."

"They must really want you dead."

"Probably."

The two follow a large pipeline down a narrow hall, passing rooms with boxes of various documents and files. A left turn, and one last stretch awaits them, leading to a deformed doorway.

Shining his sword over the scene, "That's odd."

Riven kneels down, inspecting the soot on the floor. "This door was blown open."

The sound of a few metal rods dropping cause them to spring to alert, snapping to the direction of the noise.

"There's an intruder here besides ourselves?"

With an exchange of nods, they lower themselves and move quietly, heel to toe. A concentrated breath, and the flames of the blazing sword dims to a low burn, keeping the light from being too revealing. The two stick close, navigating toward the origin of the noise with large box-bearing shelves as cover. A frustrated grumbling becomes apparent, amidst the sound of shuffling objects clinging against each other.

A turn around the corner of a pillar, and the pair see a man rummaging through a mess of broken crates and metal containers. He is dressed in an odd fashion, with a brass coloration of gears and cogs melded into plates, like decorative armor. A mildly pulsating glow of teal emits from his gear, and his left arm is a mechanical replacement of articulate design. A tight, ornate jacket of purple and red drapes over him, giving off a vibe of an aristocratic arrogance. The artificial digits of his hand effortlessly tear away another lock off a steel storage unit, and with an irritated grunt, sends it flying across the room.

"Where is it!?" the gear-clad man spits, looking around aimlessly.

"Is he a Zaunite…?" whispers Riven.

"Don't know. Why don't we go ask him?"

Sharing a taste for a direct approach, the two step out of the shadows. The mysterious intruder twists suddenly in the direction of their footsteps. Scraggly black hair drapes over half of the man's face; the unkempt curls telling of a slipping descent into madness.

"Who's th—!?" he cuts himself off, eyes catching on the fiery sword. His expression changes, and his head lowers with his face hiding behind a raven curtain.

"Perhaps this question comes off as ironic, considering we shouldn't be here either…but, who are you and what are you after?" Ephrial cuts to the point.

The mechanically-altered man remains silent, holding eerily still, like a lifeless mannequin.

A lack of any kind of response forms a deeper suspicion in the sword-wielding travelers. Riven, with a particular displeasure of not getting answers, approaches the silent figure. Before she can take a third step, the man snaps back up, eyes wide with fury.

Ephrial reacts like lightning, poising his sword out in front of himself. A blindingly fast object collides with the fuller of his blade, and drops harmlessly to the floor. The swordsman lowers his weapon to see the smoking barrel of a hextech magnum, pointing right at his head.

The Exile snaps into action, swinging her blade toward the gunman, green runes glowing faintly in the dark. To her surprise, her attack is stayed at the palm of a metal arm. Eyes of a ruined man flick in her direction, and throws her aside. Rage turns in Ephrial's direction once again, and three more over-sized slugs streak towards him.

A nimble mercenary-knight rolls out of the way of the destructive blasts. The very force of the projectiles, backed by the explosive sound upon discharge, easily outclass any hextech revolver he has previously encountered. Ephrial dips behind a stretch of dormant machinery, switching cover in between bullets.

Riven leaps from behind the marksman, returning to the fray in a set of fierce strikes. With an odd, yet precise set of movements, her foe dances in between the blows, catching only the air that drifts from the razor's edge. A spin of his gun parries the runic blade away from his face, and he counters with an open-palmed strike into her stomach, launching her into an offline conductor.

The fiery bladesman dashes in close, a blaze streaming with a heavy cleave. A sturdy forearm of advanced hextech blocks the attack, and the bottom of an empty pistol whips into his cheek.

A clip dispenses out of the firearm, and a mechanical hand tosses a new one into the air. Sparks fly as a blade grazes over the armor of gear-like plates, and a swift hand twirls the gun to meet the airborne reservoir of ammunition. The clicking sound of a fresh bullet locking into place reaches Ephrial's ears, and a precision cut slices the speeding round just as it exits the barrel, barely in time.

Split in two, the pieces of the projectile thunder into the ground behind the swordsman, ringing out crashing vibrations of a close call. A tense scene sets in motion, fire blazing from sword and gun. Quick movements and speedy weapons duck and collide with each other, blocking fatal strikes in a vicious ballet of misdirecting each other's attacks. Remaining in close quarters, they virtually take turns in their motions, alternating between offense and defense with every move.

Bullets rampantly whizz past Ephrial's head, and a golden blade glides along brass cogs. The mixture of martial arts and ravaging weaponry scars the very floor they stand on. A sudden motion of sure-strikes brings the fight to an abrupt standstill.

The silvery sheen of a large handgun points right between the eyes of the mercenary-knight, and the scorching tip of an arcane blade just short of the gunman's throat. Solid glares lock, poised for a sudden death. A small chuckle grows into a loud laughter from the raven-haired man.

"Just who are you? If you're still a person, that is…" Ephrial peers into the mechanical madness.

The manic laugh dies down to a toothy grin. "You really don't remember me, do you? Well, who can blame you… I've had a little work done…after you left me to DIE!"

"You'll have to be a bit more specific than that."

"Hah! As impertinent as ever. You destroyed all that my family had built…all that we were worth!"

"Huh. Doesn't sound like me."

"And for what…!? You had no stake in our affairs! You didn't stay for profit or control! Do you know how much I have lost all because you wanted to save that little brat!?"

"Okay. Now it sounds like me."

The infuriated madman lowers his weapon, and Ephrial warily returns the favor.

"And THIS! You did **THIS** to me!" lifting his hair out of the way with a robotic hand.

Underneath lies a scarred face with a mechanical eye. Together, with the rest of his altered body, paints a picture of Zaun's handiwork, only much cleaner, and far more articulate.

Ephrial switches his gaze back to his human eye, digging through the past with the clues he has been given. "…Thatermauge."

" _Slater_ Thatermague! I was next in line to inherit my family's legacy… We finally had our ambition in plain sight—complete control of Piltover's industrial revolution, and all clans of the Underground beneath our heel. It was not your concern to meddle with! Outsiders have no place in our matters any more than a dog has at a dining table."

A broken blade slices out of the darkness, colliding with the cybernetic limb. Slater turns his head toward the white-haired exile with a look of weary disapproval.

"Now, now, dear…it is rude to interrupt a business meeting…" a red eye peers down at Riven, and a glint of silver rises to her face.

"Riven!" the Blazing Swordsman hurls himself after her, the only option available without risk of his own blade being used against his partner, should she be thrown in his path.

The air explodes with the sound of gunfire, and the two travelers slide across the floor. A motionless second passes, and the mercenary-knight lifts himself up from off of her.

Wincing cerulean eyes ask the impending question, "Are you okay…?"

Riven's gaze quickly goes from him to the madman walking slowly towards them. Slater savors the locking of a new clip with a sinister grin, about to take his revenge after years of seething anger.

"That's it! Save the girl, just like before! Only this time…this time will have a different ending!"

Swifly, the Exile grabs Ephrial by the chestplate, and twists him over, causing them to tumble behind the cover of a large control panel. Bullets trace their path, sparking along the floor and obstruction.

Slater laughs, preparing another magazine of high-powered projectiles. "Come on out, mercenary! I have a proposal for you! I'm a business man…mercenaries are businessmen…we're not so different, right? So how about a deal. You poke your head out…and I'll make it painless!" toying with a small pool of blood with his boot.

"Ephrial, are you—"

"Yeah… I just got grazed," pulling a hand from his bloody side.

"That's a lot of blood for just being 'grazed'!"

"I'll bleed when I'm dead," quickly analyzing the situation at hand. "We're just free target practice at a range. We'll need to get close to him and attack together. A distraction would be nice," looking around the dim room for anything useful.

Without warning, a portion of the ceiling collapses inward, on the far side of the room. The surroundings become illuminated with red and blue lights, flashing rapidly. Dust and debris settle, revealing a large mechanical behemoth. A mech, painted in the colors of Piltover's police department, towers in the room. Triple-barreled machine guns take the place of arms, and a high-pressure water-cannon rests below the unmanned cockpit. Moving slow and steady on giant legs, the bipedal prototype enters the fight with an emotionless conviction born of circuits and wires. On the side is a phrase clearly altered with spray paint that reads: **"To** ** _Punch_** **and Serve."**

A monotone voice speaks with enhanced volume, echoing loudly. "CLASS FIVE GUNFIRE DETECTED! PERFORMING SEARCH AND SIEZURE!"

"That constitutes a distraction, I suppose."

Slater's excitement elevates, and he greets another challenge. "Hahahaha! Bringing out the big toys, eh, 'Piltover's Finest'? WITNESS ME!"

Shots from his magnum begin to collide with the armor of the giant. "ASSAULT ON OFFICER DETECTED. PERMISSION TO UTILIZE LETHAL FORCE: …GRANTED."

The barrels of the police mech's guns begin to rotate with a high-pitched winding sound. Loud blasts tear the air up, and bullets pepper in the direction of Slater. Flying sentinels respond to the alerts and begin swarming inside, filling the room with lights. The disgraced nobleman leaps out of the way, and starts to engage the flying units, shooting them down with great accuracy.

"Looks like we're going to have our hands full," Ephrial states plainly.

"One of us will have to distract that thing while the other deals with Slater," Riven watches the mess unfold.

"Agreed…" he reluctantly concurs, the scene of her death still fresh in his mind.

"What is it?" unfamiliar with the look of uncertainty on him.

"…It's nothing," shaking it off. "I'll handle Slater. Try to distract the mech, but just…don't engage it directly."

"…You don't think I can handle a giant can-opener with guns?!"

"That's not it!"

"Then what!?" feeling insult to her pride.

Ephrial examines her, battered from the skirmish with the Thatermauge, yet still holding up like a true warrior. There is fire in her eyes, to which he holds an admiration. Yet, he fears if he would tell Riven of her former fate, one he had inadvertently set in motion, she might become hesitant, or even doubtful. There's simply no telling how one would react after telling them that they had died, much less how they are still alive. Some secrets must remain a secret.

He takes a deep breath, then opens his eyes again; a cerulean gaze brimming with conviction, forcing certainty as the only possible reality. Though the future holds many risks, he **_will_** accomplish his self-imposed mission.

"Humor me," a solid voice requests.

Riven's anger swiftly dissolves with the intensity of his determination and mystique. The swordsman stands up and dashes out of the cover, slashing through drones on a straight path to Slater Thatermauge. An ex-soldier takes off in the opposite direction, shifting her focus on her objective as her military training would have her do.

"The future is here, Mercenary! You're looking right at it!" Slater calls out.

"If the future is that ugly, then I'll just have to make sure to cut you out of the picture."

"Your sly tongue won't help you! You destroyed my family legacy, and now I will rip everything you have away!"

Bullets and blade collide, dancing between, and on top of, the floating sentinels as they wind around the room, granting the police mech vision through their optic relays. Sparks and explosions shower around the two, old-fashioned grit against technological enhancements.

"For someone who claims to have lost everything, you sure have some advanced augmentations. Far more than any Zaunite I've seen. Tell me…what did it cost you?" Ephrial slices through a bullet and spin-kicks Slater through a railing.

Thatermauge grins as he descends ten feet to the floor, flipping in mid-air to land on his feet. He leaps away from Ephrial's follow-up attack, emptying his clip in retaliation.

"Nothing I can't take back, I assure you."

The agile swordsman rushes straight ahead, weaving around the paths of the bullets, and charging into the last few with the flat of his blade. "I thought when it came to souls, all sales are final."

Slater launches a metal fist into Ephrial's oncoming blade, and he slides back a few feet with the fiery momentum as the two grind to a brief halt. "Always an answer for everything. 'Twould seem you would then have no problem answering to all those you've slain in your quest to save that little girl!"

"They made their choice. You have made yours…and I've made mine!" A flurry of sword strikes, fists, and kicks challenge the hextech-powered nobleman.

Another clip of ammo is tossed into the air, and a fiery slash burns through it. Slater raises his arm to block a heavy cleave from overhead, and is pressed to a knee. The heat begins to slowly eat away at the limb replacement, causing it to glow a bright, hot orange.

"So, you've come back all the way to Piltover to finish me, have you? Or perhaps you've taken another contract to topple another baron?"

"I don't make contracts. I won't be confined to a piece of paper, and I won't be chained to people with deep pockets. I'm not driven by any pursuit of money. A kidnapping was brought to my attention, and I did what was necessary because that's what _I_ wished to do."

"What a waste! Destroying generations of work and toil, all for the sake of a girl not even of your own kin!"

"The value of her life far outweighs the likes of those who only live for murder and money. If there was even a chance of her making a choice to deviate away from the ways of your precious Underground system, then I consider that a fair trade."

"Hah! Any one of us were worth more than the Arvinos combined!"

Pushing down on the blade, "Yet, you would all be so quick to sell each other out for a copper coin."

Screeching metal and bullets storm through the stairs next to them, and they leap away from the bulldozing police mech. Riven, staying just ahead of the stomping machine, dives out of the way as the fumbling tower of metal trips and grinds along the ground. As it awkwardly rises upward, Slater hangs on, bashing the windshield with a wearing fist of a resilient alloy.

Ephrial and Riven evade the wild paths of automatic fire as the mech twirls about, attempting to shake off the crazed nobleman. One last punch breaks the reinforced glass, and he tears away the rest at its hinges. Ripping wires out and rearranging circuitry causes the COP mech to sputter and twist wildly, then powers down into an abrupt silence.

The swordsmen regroup, looking at the silent hunk of metal. Red and blue lights start up again, and the death machine springs back to life. It turns around, revealing its new, grinning pilot. Without hesitating, the partnering legends run for cover, bullets biting at their heels.

"You can't hide from me!" Slater, further improvising with the controls.

Each of the remaining sentinel drones ceases for a moment, then begins to move faster than before. Flying in a unison pattern, they start to scour the area for the travelers.

Taking refuge under the cover of a fallen pillar, the duo avoids the hijacked optics of the sentinels.

"Well, I guess now we only have one enemy to worry about," a fiery blade slides into a sheath.

"My sword can barely dent that thing," Riven huffs.

Ephrial carefully peeks out, looking for something to turn the tide. Towards the end of the room, he spots two large conductors, exposed and uncharged. Behind them, a large steel cap, like a lid covering a deeper chamber.

"If we can pull it off, we may be able to solve two problems at once here."

"Do you have a plan?"

"More like a bad idea, but, sure, we'll call it a plan."

"What is it?" a wary curiosity.

"Do you remember when I mentioned this building used to run on its own source of power? This room definitely converted steampower into electrical energy. That means that giant cap is covering a furnace of sorts," the mercenary-knight points it out. "It just needs the right spark to ignite."

"Just how are we going to open that lid? It looks permanently sealed."

"With a giant can-opener."

A faint grin recognizes the callback to a moment of anger, now into a moment of humor mixed with adrenaline. "How should we proceed?"

"There should be a manual pump to prime the conductors. Look for a lever connected to a large conduit."

"A what…?"

"Er…a rubbery pipe that connects something to another something."

"I see…" trying to picture a device foreign to her.

"Keep priming the lever until it just won't go anymore. There should be a switch near it that triggers the charge into the conductors over there. Wait until the lid is open and Slater is in between those giant metal rods."

"G-got it…!" puzzled by inexperience with Piltover's technology.

Red lights peer over them, revealing lenses focusing on their position. With one last exchange of glances, the two split up, just in time to avoid being torn by a barrage of bullets. The reprogrammed drones divide their chase, following their targets to keep a visual.

Ephrial takes the role of distraction, evading the crushing steps of the police mech and weaving between lines of gunfire. He ducks and slides through a narrow gap, below slabs of collapsed stone and metal. Relentlessly tailing him, Slater uses the barrels of the mech to smash through the obstructions with a crude, but effective punching motion. The mercenary-knight leaps onto the giant cover of the furnace, running to the edge before turning around to face his foe.

"There is no place left to run! I shall thoroughly enjoy this, 'Hero'!" the madman shouts as he climbs onto the platform.

The joints of the mechanical wonder manage to step up without an issue, and the sheer weight rumbles the cover with each step.

"We've already seen how much you're worth as a man… Let's see how much you're worth as a mechanical monstrosity!" Ephrial taunts as he flourishes out his sword with a spin, loosening his wrist up for battle.

A loud metal screeching sounds as the mech charges forth, almost as if the machine itself became sentient with a battlecry, reflecting Slater's thirst for vengeance. High-powered projectiles stream down in lines toward Ephrial as it rushes, punching holes through the surface of the platform.

With a daring challenge, the Blazing Swordsman dashes straight forward, preparing for precision of timing. He leaps over the path of the ballistics, somersaulting through the narrow gap between the lines of fire, just above their focal point. Hitting the ground running, he retains his momentum as he continues toward Slater.

The shadow of a large, metal foot rises over him, and Ephrial swerves to the side, dodging several thousand pounds of crushing pressure. He sweeps his blade along the outer ankle of the other leg, and uses the newly-carved handhold to clasp firm on the flailing machine. Nimbly climbing the crevices in between heavy armor plating, he ascends the titan's structure, surrounded by the red gazes of weaponless sentinels.

Holding fast with determination in his grip, the mercenary-knight hangs on as the mech spins its upper-body on a pivot separate from its legs. Spotting a panel and handle used for maintenance, Ephrial reaches out, nearly falling off as he grabs hold. Getting dizzy himself, Slater halts the spinning, and the swordsman braces. Taking his sword in both hands, he plunges the fiery blade into the side of the panel. Gritting his teeth, a fiery spirit begins to melt away at the protective exterior. He begins cutting through a plate of seething metal, glowing hot from the intense heat.

Slater begins rapidly typing away at the control panel before him, and the swarm of remaining drones begins to move angrily. One dives low, slamming straight into the mercenary. With a loud metal thud, Ephrial crashes back onto the platform. Skipping next to him is a deformed plate, sliding away after being snapped off by the force.

"Heh heh…I can see what they mean by fighting fire with fire. Maybe it isn't wise to fight you in your own element. I should have been using **_this_** instead!"

Ephrial picks himself up, forcing the pain out of his mind. A cerulean gaze meets the barrel of a water-cannon adjusting itself in his direction. What was intended to be a non-lethal alternative to crowd control is being overridden into something devastating. Narrowly jumping out of the way, he avoids a laser of extreme water-pressure. The metal of the platform squeals as it tears asunder at the mercy of this innovative weapon.

The nobleman laughs manically as he sends more drones to pummel Ephrial, making him an easier target. The jet of water trails along the path of the evading swordsman, carving through a foot of reinforced steel.

Facing immeasurable odds, the adventurer keeps on the move. Ducking and weaving between blimp-like rams of metal, he keeps his distance from the hydraulic beam of death. A sentinel just behind him gets caught in the wake of the jet, splitting in half. The resulting explosion knocks Ephrial down, sending him tumbling forward. A raging spout of water reflects in his eyes, and the mercenary rolls himself out of its path, falling into a large gap of ripped metal created during the chase.

The water clears, and all the remains in sight is an arcane sword in the middle of a scarred battlefield. Ceasing the cannon, Slater looks anxiously in the quiet scene lit up by rotating lights of red, the sentinels now circling above. He stands up, balling his fists in triumph.

"It's over! IT'S OVER! I have claimed my revenge, and now I will claim Piltover!" an insane laughter ensues.

Cheating death, an enduring knight pulls himself up. Covered in blood and water, he manages to climb out, taking the blade of everlasting fire back into his hand. He stands, looking up at the man in the towering mech; a gaze of pure resolve burning a hole in the nobleman's celebration.

Slater takes notice, and his expression drops. Shock immediately turns to rage, and he sinks back into the cockpit with haste. Taking the levers and controls in his hands once again, the mech springs back up and adopts his aggressive stance. Concealing panels on the back of the machine loudly pop off, revealing an arsenal of small missiles tucked in a compartment.

 **"** **WHY WON'T YOU** ** _DIE_** **!?"**

Rapidly, the rows of explosives take flight one at a time in very swift succession, spiraling high in the air with trails of smoke tailing each one. The drones begin to wildly twist in Ephrial's direction, spearheading themselves on a direct collision course with him. Tightening his grip on the hilt of his blade, Ephrial charges forward with intensity.

A shower of tiny explosions begins to erupt all around him, as the missiles pepper down on the furnace. The first sentinel closes in, and the swordsman sidesteps it at the last moment, letting it crash into a fiery wreck. Ephrial slashes straight through the next two, leaping onto the one behind them. Before it can collide with the platform, he hops onto the next, ducking below a missile as it whistles past. A sea of explosive destruction covers the entire ring in a deadly blaze, creating a lively inferno beneath.

Taking a leap of faith, he hurls himself forward with all his might, cutting through an obstructing drone in mid-air. Turning the grip on his sword around, he dives straight forward to Slater. The machine jerks to the side, moving the cockpit safely away. Ephrial hits the next-best mark. A fiery blade plunges down into the exposed wiring of a compromised panel.

A malfunction in the system causes the mech to take an awkward step and stumble backwards, off of the furnace. The machine slams into the ground, sending Ephrial sliding along the stone floor. Silence takes the air, if only for a brief moment. None of the drones cruising the air remain. The only light that fills the room comes from peering moonbeams, leaking through where the mech had crashed from above, and the glow of a blazing sword.

Ephrial wearily rises, using his blade for support until he is on his feet. Rubble and dust begin to shudder, and the prototype mech sparks back up. Whirring and sputtering, the mechanical marvel raises upright with a pilot that is only half man. Torn clothing and exposed hextech parts reveal the true nature of what used to be the future kingpin of Piltover.

The mercenary, holding his bloody side with his free hand, looks over at Slater Thatermauge. Both host an expression of fatigued frustration at each other.

Slater holds a human hand over a damage mechanical eye. "Why…?! Why do you keep getting my way…!? You didn't belong here then, and you don't belong here now! You should be at the 'League of Freaks' with all the rest! Yet, still, here you are…in Piltover! Tell me, for what purpose does an outsider that has no ambition for this city come here!?"

"This time, it's none of your business."

The madman can't help but let out a laugh of lunacy at Ephrial's sharp wit—a turn of phrase based on how the mercenary toppled his future empire, and how it left the Thatermauges out of business permanently.

"So, what's next? You're going to sentence me to death like the rest?!"

"Whatever you and your family had coming to you, I had nothing to do with. Yet, I can't help but feel it wasn't exactly undeserved."

"Hah! Washing your hands clean of responsibility! Then again, that's what 'heroes' do, don't they!? Is this the true face of the so-called 'chivalrous mercenary'!?"

"I don't recall ever referring to myself as a 'hero'. I have always fought for what I believe in…for the _people_ I believe in. Perhaps you're right to infer that my hands are not clean," Ephrial spots the hextech magnum lying in front of him, and picks it up. "Yet, this is the path I have chosen. Peace is fleeting. It cannot exist without war…without death…without blood. Yet, if someone doesn't try, it simply _won't_ exist at all."

A partial pull of the slide with his finger reveals one slug left in the chamber. He releases it, letting it snap back into place, and lets out a sigh.

"A thousand souls await you in the next life! Forget the Underground! I will build my empire in the under ** _world_**! All of Hell will be waiting for you! The Thatermauges do not forget those that cross us, and we **_never_** forgive!" insane enthusiasm spits blood.

The barrels of the mech begin to wind, humming with the strain of rerouting power. A loud click echoes within the walls of the room, and the exposed conductors next to the battered mech begin to glow. A large band of electricity begins crackling between them, joining with violent prongs of lightning. Caught in the middle of the massive flow of electrons, Slater screams out in pain as they course through his body and that of the prototype. The controls in the cockpit begin to spark and combust wildly, starting small fires all around the chassis of the police unit.

 **"** **N-NEV…ER…FORGET! NEV…NEVER FORGIIIIVE!"** the mad nobleman laughs through the agony.

"Tell them not to get too comfortable down there," Ephrial, still looking downward, closes his eyes and stretches his arm out to his side, steadily pointing the handcannon. "Eternity is a long time to have to contend with me."

The sound of a small click, and a thunderous boom lets out. A speeding projectile hits its mark, and the impact sends the silenced noble and ruined mech tipping backwards. Ephrial dismisses the firearm with a casual flick of his wrist, letting it fall to the dust.

Metal creaks and grinds as the giant legs fumble over the edge of the furnace, falling into the dark pit opened by excessive force. The jolting electricity of the conductors ceases, allowing for a moment of odd stillness before the machine crashes to the bottom. A fiery ignition sets off, spouting out of the pit, and the room begins to hum with lively energy. Old lights from a previous generation glow a dim yellow through glass tainted with age. Steam begins to fill the space through the furnace and various leaks around damaged piping, humidifying the atmosphere.

Riven traverses the ruins, the basement still somehow holding up the floors above. She approaches Ephrial with an array of questions in her mind. The Exile had heard everything between them, creating speculation of misdeeds or extreme overzealousness in Ephrial's past. Not one to judge on such things, she holds back reservations on him, yet cannot help but be unsettled.

"…What happened with you and the Thatermauges?" she inquires, sensing a deeper tale.

"…You already know the story."

"There's clearly more to it! He spoke as if you killed his entire clan! What did you do…?"

"I don't know…" he speaks softly.

Riven senses a perturbed suspicion in his voice. Knowing she cannot vice the answer out of him, as well as having already decided to trust him, the Exile leans off the subject. Despite the straightforward honesty he has always given her, Riven sees only mystery in Ephrial, and a wariness brews within.

The mercenary-knight opens his eyes again, turning his head toward the uncovered chamber of steampower. An article of paper rests where the maddened enemy used to be. He walks over to pick it up, eyes scanning the blood-splattered parchment.

"What is it?" Riven looks over his shoulder.

"It's an invoice for a work-order."

"Repairs…? Why would someone who wants to destroy place an order to fix things? A guise?"

"A clue."

With a loud clash, a light fixture that was barely hanging on a cord slams into the ground behind them. Another look at their surroundings, and they know their time is short.

"Why haven't we been overrun with Piltover's police yet?"

"I assume they must have sent almost every unit to that explosion from earlier in an attempt to finally capture the culprit. With all the commotion we've caused here, I'm sure they'll be back before long."

"Then let's get Heimerdinger's screwdriver and leave."

Ephrial stores the valuable piece of paper and rushes alongside Riven. Despite the weights in the back of their minds, their headstrong attitudes keep them on course. A dark yesterday cannot get in the way of a brighter tomorrow. In their own way, they realize this, though the struggle remains. Progress often looks back to the past for guidance…

Yet, hope exists only for the future.


	31. Chapter 31: Unscrewing the Tension

**-  
Chapter 31**

 ** _Unscrewing the Tension_**

The sword-bearing duo walks through the blast doors of the workshop belonging to the Revered Inventor. Traveling towards the noise of a soldering tool at work, they approach a heavily-focused yordle.

"Special delivery," Ephrial lays an odd device down on the workbench in front of Heimerdinger.

A stream of sparks comes to a pause, and a tiny hand picks up the implement to examine it. Gray plates form the cylindrical body, like an oversized pen, with a thin metal rod extending out of it. At the head of the gadget is a set of tiny prongs which conform to the shape of any screw's indentations, similar to how a pin impressions toy works. With a press of a button, four rods spring out from the base, stretching out to surround the head, poised to clamp down on the sides of a screw's head to introduce a magnetic force.

"Yes, this will suffice quite nicely," he turns the item in his hand. "It seems your errand did not go as smoothly as anticipated," switching his gaze over to them.

"What gave it away?" noting the rough condition the two are in.

Heimerdinger responds by turning up the volume on the nearby spinning wire display. Broadcasting is a female reporter covering a story on the damage caused during the night in two separate locations.

"We are currently waiting for the chief of police to make an announcement regarding the destruction that took place earlier in these late hours, responsible for cutting off power to a quarter of the city. Panic in the streets have died down, and there have been reports of a major arrest being made in the involvement of the terror attacks occurring all throughout Piltover. Many eager ears and worried citizens have gathered here in anticipation for the words we have been waiting to hear."

The crowd around her begins to escalate at the sight of an approaching figure, taking his place at a podium in front of the police station.

Continuing to report, "The chief has just emerged and is preparing to issue a statement!"

With a flicker, the images change to that of a burly man with a mechanical replacement for his left hand. His blue uniform is neat and pressed, decorated with an array of medals and ribbons over a long career of service. Gray streaks of hair tell of experience, and a stern face of discipline looks into the crowd. Accompanying him are two familiar figures, dressed in police in uniforms, far from standard-issue, and a bit questionable.

"Citizens of Piltover, you have heard the phrase 'the night is darkest just before the dawn'. Through the tireless efforts and valiant actions of our most daring, I am pleased to make the announcement of a critical arrest that will mark a time of peace for the City of Progress. The terrorist and villain known as Jinx has been placed into custody, and is being scheduled for immediate incarceration in the highest security facility at our disposal."

A roar erupts within the crowd. Cheers of jubilation spread through the city at the news everyone had been hoping to receive for a long time. Police lights from nearby cruisers and drones light up the sky in a flashing of blue and red. The sirens nearly startles the crowd, invoking another silence for the chief to continue.

"It is with great honor that I award these two heroes with the credit they deserve for their distinguished service. These brave women are truly Piltover's Finest."

He steps from the podium, approaching the adjacent figures to pin medals on their uniforms. Standing at attention, the familiar faces of a sheriff and enforcer receive their accommodations with dignity. Stepping back, the chief salutes them, then joins in the applause, and the night air begins to strobe rapidly with photography. Unable to hold a façade of austere mannerisms, the hextech-clad hands of the pink-haired enforcer break into the mood. One giant hand rests over her partner's shoulder, and the other shoots the cameras an oversized thumbs-up. The more serious face under the shade of a pair of aviators surrenders to the toothpick-bearing Cheshire grin of her partner, and strikes a pose with her scoped rifle. The light of the sun peaks over the horizon, painting the sky with the bright orangey-pink of dawn.

"There you have it," the reporter chimes back in. "The news all of Piltover has been anxiously hoping for! Jinx, the Loose Cannon, has been arrested! How this will affect the city's relations with the Institute of War is anybody's guess, but we can all rest easier tonight knowing that the city is safe from the blue braids of havoc!"

"An intriguing development, but we had no part in this," Ephrial turns back to Heimerdinger.

"Then what else, may I ask, could have dispensed such inimical strain on you?"

"It would be better not to ask," Riven speaks.

"…She's right. It's unrelated, and we've brought what you had asked for."

"Yes, yes, I will get started right away," the Revered Inventor begins to meddle with the circuit board.

The two hover behind him, awaiting the reveal of their next clue. To think that such a small, fragile article of technology could hold valuable information to a huge scandal makes them realize how closely they must pay attention to detail. Advanced hextech, a plot successful in devastating the Institute of War, and dark ambitions lurking in the shadows tell of an enemy that will not be so easily pinpointed. Along the way, events seemingly dredge up their histories, as if the past yearns to take hold of their present and future with tendrils, stalking them wherever they go.

With a very faint buzzing, the conforming head of the hextool twists, and the last helix screw winds out. The yordle begins to pry the cover off of the diode, and the little piece of black paneling surrenders with a tiny snap. All three lean closer to the layers of magnifying glasses fixed on its position. They share a focused squint, with a look of question writing itself across their faces.

"… _That_ is our lead?" Riven scoffs.

Ephrial, determined to make their strenuous efforts mean something, "There has to be more…"

"Hm…this is highly unsatisfactory," a white mustache twitches.

Inside of the casing is a simple letter, stamped with care, mocking them; 'C'. Though the definition of minimalistic, there is an eloquence in the style and setting of it, as if designed for deliberate discovery.

"What's your take on this, Heimerdinger?" the mercenary-knight scrutinizes every detail of their find.

"It is not out of the ordinary an inventor would brand their creation in some way, marking it as their own for others to see."

"You mean it's some kind of signature?" Riven conjectures.

"Precisely."

Ephrial turns away, crossing his arms, and taking a few steps with his head down in contemplation.

"What is it?" the Exile inquires a discerning mind.

"It must have taken some special kind of pride to leave us a breadcrumb like this, no matter how small."

"You're saying they _want_ us to find out who did it?"

"I believe it to be a form of _challenge_ for us to find out."

The Revered Inventor further inspects the insignia. "In order for this presumption to be plausible, the creator would have had to plant this symbol in nearly every diode and transistor for at least one to survive the trauma described to me."

"Perhaps it is a longshot, but it's the only explanation we have at the moment. Why else would they have gone through such efforts to conceal it with a trap? This couldn't have been intended for just anyone, though. There has to be another connection."

"Is there anyone you know that adorns their inventions with such a marking?" Riven asks the yordle.

"No. I'm afraid my usefulness in your search ends here. The only thing left for me to offer you is a wish of good probability in your endeavor."

"You're not going to help us any further?"

"I have my own affairs I must contend with. When I am free of my obligations, I shall make my own move onto this changing battlefield." Heimerdinger begins to walk over to a set of blueprints, muttering to himself various calculations and scientific terms.

"Well, I guess that's all we're getting out of him for now," Ephrial gives a slight shrug.

"What's next?"

"We visit our friends down at the police station."

"Are you crazy? They'll apprehend us after what we did at the courier depot!" Riven objects.

"Doubt it. We may have inadvertently done them a favor," holding up the invoice they had found after defeating Slater Thatermauge.

The two turn, and begin their way out of the legendary inventor's workshop.

"What does _that_ have to do with **this**?" Riven looks at the fragment of advanced technology in her hand.

"Maybe something, maybe nothing. If it holds any value at all, a certain detective may be more willing to lend us a hand with our own investigation."

"I see… Your aim is an exchange of information with Piltover's sheriff."

"More or less. After all, with Noxus getting along with this city's rival, it would help if we did not come empty-handed."

The Exile insinuates her past, "You mean, because of _me_."

"Because nothing's ever free," deflecting her assertion with a truthful statement.

"That's exactly what a mercenary would say. Tell me, then…what is it you seek in return for helping me?"

"Heh," admiring ex-soldier's keenness in conversation. "Would I be allowed to call myself an exception?"

"They are your own words, 'mercenary-knight'. You must be pursuing some personal benefit in all of this. Tell me."

"My intentions were never to ask, nor receive anything from you like you are suggesting. However, if you **_insist_** that I charge you…"

"What…? That is not what I—!"

"How about a story?"

"…A…story...?"

"Why not? I've indulged you in a couple of tales. Surely you have some of your own to share."

Riven pauses, hit with an unexpected request. Ever since her name had reemerged from the dead, everyone looked at her as if they knew everything they had already needed to know…and perhaps they were right. So many eyes of distrust, chastisement…and hatred. The very summoners she had shared her mind with had held many reservations of their own, no matter how sympathetic some of their voices were. It's hard to sift through the memories of a slaughterer of families, and see them without the slightest bit of ire burning inside.

"I…I don't have any stories to share…" her eyes begin to smolder with battle and regret.

"We both know that isn't true. You've traveled around Runeterra for nearly as long as I have. Come on…there must something worth remembrance in this odd world that never sits still."

The Exile exhales, shaking her head. She shuts her eyes and thinks back, looking for some scrap of an anecdote during her travels after Ionia. "I don't have anything…I'm sorry…"

Those last two words seem to weigh like an anchor in a deep abyss of dark memories. Ephrial realizes he has accidentally diverted things in the direction opposite of intended, glancing at her with a burgeoning sense of concern.

"…Then, I am honored," flashing a grin, his eyes fixing forward.

Lifting her head back up, confusion taking the place of brooding. "What…?"

"I get to be the first to take part in your stories. Those that have passed, like the packs of animals that surrounded us, that encounter with a giant hydra of doom, and even a police unit made for _excessive enforcement_ ," sneaking a play on words in the mix. "Then, there are those yet to come, just ahead. …We're going to have to work on some accounts that don't end in '—and that's how we almost died'."

Riven sighs deeply at the mix of a roguish and boyish charm; a balance of mature and jovial conduct that has a way of provoking a response, even from a recluse such as herself. A small chuckle erupts to a small, short-lived laughter as she raises her head. Her eyes open again, the embers of conflict taking a backseat for the moment. The recollection of a very recent occurrence comes forward, along with the sentiments she imagines is common in his own tales.

"…There **_is_** one thing that happened."

"Oh? What might that be?" intrigued by the unprecedented laughter.

"Just before I arrived in view of Piltover, I found a little girl named Cecilia…"

The partners continue down the corridors, adding quips about various details as the account unfolds, and setting off in a chain of back and forth laughter. A rare moment of respite takes its place between the two in the form of light fun. If only for a short while, the air around them settles without the ongoing complexity of emotions caused by the burdens they bear.

A diminutive clue opens further progression in their endeavors, and a little banter advances a developing amity. Even the smallest of moments can hold the largest potential for great change. Piltover knows this better than any other nation. When it comes to catching the smallest details, no one tops the hat of the city's esteemed sheriff.

Together, two adventurers journey into the reach of the long arms of the law.


	32. Chapter 32: Police Negotiation

**-  
Chapter 32**

 _ **Police Negotiation**_

"Are you sure about this?" Riven asks.

Ephrial responds flatly, "Nope."

The two follow a police deputy through the halls of Piltover's law enforcement headquarters. Pictures of distinguished men and women of the badge decorate the walls. Soon, the images turn to the ink and parchment of framed newspaper clippings, each covering the same officer in numerous detective cases. A top hat and sniper rifle become more and more of a local icon as the printed dates count toward the present.

"Then what are we doing here?"

"We cannot advance our investigation without aid of those involved in crimes concerning hextech. Can you think of anyone better to ask?"

"…And if they try to apprehend us?"

"Then you get to say 'I told you so'."

"In here," the escorting officer directs them to an office door.

A frosted window of reinforced glass has 'Sheriff' labeled on it. The worn hinges tell of repeated abuse by being slammed off the frame, then being placed back again.

"Thanks," Ephrial says, reaching for the doorknob.

The two warriors enter a room heavily furnished with objects of various origins; most likely trophies of past cases. Wooden floorboards creak underfoot, and the mixture of classic wooden furniture and hextech fixtures gives off a modern, yet rustic feel to the space. In the corner of the room, a custom-made boombox loudly plays a punk rock song, created by a famous band of yordles in Piltover.

At the end of the room is a large desk, littered with various case files, paperwork, and an open box of doughnuts. An undisciplined officer eyes them, leaning far back on a large chair, with a relaxed comportment. Her feet rest folded on top of the desk, one hextech hand on the back of her head, and the other holding a confection clad in pink, sprinkle-studded frosting.

"Well, well, you two are far from home," Vi says with her mouth full, a tone of apathetic carefreeness.

"You don't exactly seem surprised to see us," the mercenary-knight approaches, noting her disposition.

"Why should we be?" the cool, posh accent of a well-known marksman appears. "You left destructive traces of yourself all over that delivery depot. Rather, what remains of it."

Caitlyn gives a quick glare at Vi, who responds with a roll of her eyes. The Enforcer swings her legs off the desk, and dismounts a large, comfy chair, grabbing another doughnut on the way. The Sheriff brings the spinning seat to a halt, and sits down, tending to her rifle with a clean rag.

"Apologies for the mess."

"What are you doing in my city?" the interrogating voice of a veteran officer demands.

"We're here for information," Riven says coldly, taking a fast disliking to Caitlyn's demeanor.

"One count of breaking and entering, twenty-two counts of obstructing the delivery of post, and thirty-eight counts of destruction of police property, just to name a few. To top it all off, grand theft of a parcel belonging to a Mister Heimerdinger, head of the Yordle Academy of Science and Progress, and fellow combatant of the Institute of War. The diplomatic immunity the League offers can only stretch so far, Vigilante."

"You work rather swiftly. Tell me, then…do you know of the current situation of the League?" Ephrial inquires.

"Our hands have been full with the series of attacks in all our districts. I haven't had any time to bother with the League's affairs other than when I am contractually obligated. Now that that's out of the way…" steely eyes of a woman in uniform turn sharply in their direction. "Tell me why I should not take you into custody this very moment."

"We need your help. The Revered Inventor himself has, more or less, directed us into seeking your specialty."

Raising an eyebrow, "Heimerdinger sent you?"

"He had sent us to collect a tool for him; an implement necessary to help us in turn. We were at the depot to retrieve his parcel; not to steal it."

"…You have five minutes to explain," the scope of the firearm reflects a beam of light that seeps through the window blinds.

"The League is under attack by an unknown entity. No doubt that despite your heavy workload, some mention of the Institute's closing has reached your attention. I'm sure the cover-up has been well thought out, but it's a charade meant to draw out time for whatever their plan requires. Whoever is responsible wants a good majority of the League's champions dead first, and there's no telling just how successful they've been in that particular endeavor so far. A handful of us managed to survive an encounter with one of their…surprises. It provided us a lead that directed us here."

"You mean it directed you to Heimerdinger? I suspect you found something of hextech design?"

"Yes. Without him, our find would have been just another piece of scrap. He aided us in making use of it, and now we need your assistance in making sense of it."

"Even if I _were_ to take your word for it, that doesn't explain why you trespassed a restricted area, and nearly leveled a building that had been evacuated."

"We were attacked," Riven defends. "While most of your forces attended to the commotion in a remote area, we were sneaking into the depot. A man was there already, searching for something."

"There weren't traces of anyone else there. Even if there were, I can't imagine they would be able to fend off our prototype without some sort of sign of their presence."

"…There was no trace of a third person at all…?" a thought of concern grows in the back of Ephrial's mind.

"If there are, we have not found them yet in the heap of wreckage. More than that, what was it this supposed perpetrator was looking for?"

"We don't know. However, we did turn up something of interest," the swordsman holds out the parchment they had found. "His name was Slater Thatermauge, a name you are no doubt familiar with. That's also his blood on the paper—evidence of him on the scene."

Caitlyn receives the article of parchment, and looks it over a moment. "A work order?"

"Seems harmless at first sight, I know. Yet, I am hoping you might confirm a connection with all those locations listed on it."

The officer's eyes snap back to Ephrial with a sharp glare from underneath the shade of her hat. "These are places that have been struck by the seemingly random explosions in my city."

"I thought as much. Are there any on the list that have not yet been attacked?"

"No. The last one was struck seven hours ago."

"When you so conveniently caught your most wanted?"

"…It is only that fact that you have acquired my attention. Everything else is but a flimsy alibi with the blame pinned to a man that has been dead for years. I will have one of our top investigators put on the matter, but with our most _colorful_ culprit in custody, the case might as well remain closed. In the meantime, I will have you escorted out of Piltover and inform you of the results in due time," she lets her rifle down, leaning it against the desk.

"I'm afraid that is not quite going to work out."

"I am letting you leave my city instead of locking you away, and you are refusing? What did you think you would get with a piece of paper, a vandalized building, and a name that has long been buried?"

"With all due respect, this wouldn't be the first time we've seen someone come back from the dead. This is but a mere courtesy, as it concerns only Piltover. What I have brought to bargain with is far from your jurisdiction. However, I've no doubt it'll pique your interest beyond explosions and bloody parchment."

The mercenary-knight pulls out the frazzled circuitry, and places it on the desk in front of the stern policewoman. She picks it up, turning it over to get a view from all angles.

" _This_ is your find that brought you all the way to Piltover?" an unimpressed Caitlyn scoffs.

"Take a closer look."

Her eyes narrow at the confident response, receiving a notion of earnest intention in his voice. She pulls out a small magnifying glass, kept in pristine condition since she had received it from her parents, years ago. The detective shifts the lens of her trusty tool, an air of sophisticated curiosity mixed with a passion for turning up results. As birds are to flying, Caitlyn is to solving mysteries. It is simply in her nature, rendering her unable to ignore questions that beg answers.

The experienced cunning of the Blazing Swordsman recognizes this, and has played his cards well. As the magnified gaze of Piltover's finest detective scans the surface of the burnt-out wires and circuits, she comes across the exposed panel only recently revealed. Her eye widens to fill the capacity of the glass' blown up image of her, from the other side of the desk. There, crested within the journeyed piece of hextech, lies a simple, singular character, mocking her. A lonely letter, with nothing at all to decipher it. Since the dawn of her career in the police force, she has been taunted with many cases by the mysterious "C."

Known as the only criminal that has left her clueless, her endless pursuit has fostered a deep wanting inside. A borderline obsession has grown inside of her over the years, opening and shutting cases like clockwork. Yet that simple letter laughs at her, day after day. Never a shred of evidence, nor the slightest hint. The perfect criminal eludes the renowned investigator, only letting her find something she is purposely **allowed** to find. Here it is again, the same, simple signature left behind every time. Nothing more, nothing less. Even the font is kept consistent, no matter what form it takes, from spray paint to burning fuel on the road.

There is one thing different this time… Unlike previous instances, this was _delivered_ to her. As a detective, it is her job to get inside of the mind of the criminals, deducing their methods, motives, and where they will strike next before they themselves even know. Yet, "C" has always turned the tables on Caitlyn, invading her mind instead, and underneath her skin.

"Oh man. This guy's got your number, Cupcake!" Vi leans over her partner's shoulder, her voice muffled behind a chewed-up dessert. "Or, should I say letter?"

Sharp eyes turn back to Ephrial, understanding now the level of his seriousness. Neither of the swordsmen in front of her would be broken for an answer as to where this clue had been recovered, and without some information and a scene of the crime, the evidence in her hands is as useless as a roadrunner without an engine. Caitlyn's accent and polished mannerisms keep her collected, but a seething desire to catch her culprit flares.

"What is it you want?"

The mercenary looks at her with conviction of his own. "An exchange of services."

"You came here asking us to help you, and now you are aiming to help us? If I recall, you said that this matter concerns only Piltover," tapping the work order before her.

"That remains true…yet it is not known for how long."

Caitlyn lays down the fried chip and magnifying glass, and leans in, resting her elbows on her desk, and her chin on folded hands. Her eyes narrow with a discerning mind, listening intently to the proposition.

"Heimerdinger had revealed to us that this brand of Hextech remains unknown. It is a manner of mind-control through technology. Though we have no sure answers, we both agree that this sounds like Zaun's handiwork. Additionally, when Riven and I encountered Slater, he was more machine than man. Of course, that in its own sounds like Zaun entirely, yet he was far different than what any of us have seen. His mechanical body was far too articulate. This brand of augmentation was more advanced, and it was definitely not made in some run-down lab with scrap metal and spare parts. Whoever performed such a feat would have no lack in funding."

Riven crosses her arms, now understanding why Ephrial had persuaded her to come to the police station. If there is any link between the incident at the Crystal Scar and the delivery depot, it's a unique brand of hextech that would have devastating consequences if allowed to continue. Perhaps chasing one lead would turn up another in their favor…in _everyone's_ favor. If the creator of these abominations is one in the same, they can use him to track down the others at fault to the attack on the institute.

"…A work order of this size would have to be issued by a high-ranking official. It is not unusual for these places to require maintenance, but to have it all done in such a short time must mean something. We can track down who signed for this order, and question the owners of these establishments as to who came in for these jobs."

"I've only confidence in your skill as a detective, but we are too pressed for time to do things by the book. You yourself work fast, but the system works a bit…slow, to say the least," recalling his last visit to Piltover. "The trail remains hot, but it's cooling rapidly. For this, we need a different kind of specialist. One as unpredictable as these events."

"Exactly what are you trying to say?"

"Come now, Detective. You did not get this far in your career without knowing how to read in between the lines."

Caitlyn leans back in her chair, a grave look setting upon her face. "…You do realize you are asking me to go against my very oath as an officer of the law?"

"Laws and paperwork don't protect anyone. People do."

A simple truth pierces the last barrier of a badge, reaching the person behind it. The Sheriff of Piltover surrenders her oathbound limitations in favor for the greater good. Risking her position in the force is a small price to pay to protect the citizens she has been serving for years. Though she might lose her job, she would not lose her career. This is _her_ city. She is the law, and sometimes, the sheriff of a town has to take the law into her own hands. After all, how can she protect a city if regulations are the very thing that bar her from doing just that?

Caitlyn glares. "…What I am about to do, I do for the citizens of Piltover. This is _my_ city, and we will be doing things **_my_** way."

An abrupt smashing silences the music in the corner. Everyone's attention turns to a fuming Vi, her giant fist crushing the boombox and table.

"YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS!" the enraged Enforcer yells.

"Settle down, Vi."

"What the hell do you think you're doing!?" taking a big step towards her partner.

"What needs to be done. We have a responsibility to uphold."

"Bullspit! Letting **_her_** out is the least responsible thing you could possibly do!"

"She would be under our supervision at all times. If saving lives means we have to take big risks, then so be it. You taught me that yourself."

"Oh-ho! The esteemed goodie-two-shoes Sheriff of Piltover finally bends a rule! I've waited a long time for you to loosen up a bit and stop being such a stiff, but this!? **_This!?_** "

"Not all problems can be solved by hitting them."

"We've gone through hell to catch her, and just like that, you want to let her loose!?"

"She will remain in our custody, and will return to imprisonment when the case is closed."

"Have you forgotten all we've been through to catch her!? How many catastrophes could have been prevented if we were only _that_ much quicker!?" narrowing two large, mechanical fingers very close to each other.

"Don't think of me so foolish as to not take that into consideration! If I recall, there was one such criminal I had apprehended on a spree that caused almost as much mayhem as her! I bent the rules back then, too, for the greater good!"

"Are you comparing me to _her_!?" Vi, getting in Caitlyn's face.

"I am not comparing anyone. I am merely asking you to trust me as I have trusted you."

The two lock eyes, both fueled by trials they have endured together, but reflecting their own demons that separate them.

Vi's gritting teeth turn to an angry smile. "Heh. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

The disgruntled officer storms out, barely restraining herself from punching a door through the wall. No doubt there will be reports of beaten and crushed dumpsters and various constructions nearby.

Three champions of the League remain in an uncomfortable silence.

"She'll be back," the Sheriff sighs. "Returning to the matters at hand. We will have to do this as quietly as possible. The last thing we need is for rumors of that madwoman running free once again. Getting her out before she is transferred to the maximum-security facility should not pose too much of a problem, but we will have a very short time to conduct this investigation before we are found out. Convincing her to help will be another effort entirely."

"I don't think that will be too much of a problem," Ephrial eyes the utterly crushed doorknob where Vi had departed.

"She is currently being held in the cells below, and is scheduled for transportation tomorrow. This will give us the necessary time to make preparations. Come back at seven o'clock, sharp."

"Thank you."

Ephrial and Riven turn to leave through a door barely remaining on one, dilapidated hinge. The pair walks down the decorated halls once again, off to make preparations of their own for the coming night ahead.

"Do you really think they are connected?" Riven asks about the two distant pieces of evidence they had turned in.

"So far, some of the most destructive forces we've seen on our way have been at the fault of hextech, much too advanced to be necessary for practical use. The mind-control device at Kalamanda, Slater's superhuman capabilities, and even that prototype police unit."

"Are you saying that people have infiltrated Piltover's police department, too?"

"Not necessarily. I am merely stating that all this technology has to come from somewhere. The only places that could possibly lead us to are Zaun and Piltover. All the resources required for such creations are located in these regions alone. To ship them elsewhere would cost a hefty amount, take too much time, and above all, leave the risk of a big trail. Additionally, our mysterious 'C' left a calling card that has significant meaning and history right here in Piltover. We're either heading in the right direction, or being led away. Regardless, our only clue points us here."

"I see… And your plan is to use an insane person to locate another insane person?"

"The very premise of leaving such a small clue that could be so easily missed, and just as easily destroyed while trying to uncover it, barely makes any sense, if at all. Whomever we are tracking down is working on a different sense of comprehension. Sometimes, to grasp an understanding of people, you must toss aside logic itself."

"Seems like you've met a lot of crazy people."

"It takes all kinds in this world."

"It sounds as if you are trying to make sense of the senseless."

"No one is born insane. The way thoughts are processed and the results that follow vary, sure. However, the information and experiences themselves are a product of this world. Thus, a person's mentality, habits, personality, and so on are byproducts of environment. Some people can turn into monsters, but it serves not to forget that they were still people at one time or another."

"So, what truly separates man from monster?"

"How they bare their fangs."


	33. Chapter 33: Loose Cannon

**-  
Chapter 33**

 ** _Loose Cannon_**

"I don't know who's crazier—the blue-haired freak beyond that door, or you two with the brilliant idea of asking her for help," a vexed Vi glances at the swordsmen behind her as they walk down a dark, narrow corridor.

"You don't have to come along," Riven responds.

"Yeah, right…and let you guys slip up, allowing her to get away? No thanks. I want to be right there, ready to plant _this_ right in her face the moment she tries something," balling an oversized fist. "The same goes for you! I know you're supposed to be 'rehabilitated' and all, but you aren't all too different from her if you think about it."

"If you have something to say, say it head-on," the Exile growls.

The Enforcer ceases her steps, and turns around, pointing a mechanical finger at her. "Your kill-count is right up there with hers! Maybe you've changed, maybe you haven't. All I know is that I am not going to allow you to mess up again!"

Heated glares meet each other in a sudden spout of tension. With both women being wielders of giant weapons, each with a knack for making a mess with them, the intensity creates the feeling that the hallway might erupt at any moment.

"Enough, Vi. We have a job to do," Caitlyn intervenes, looking over her shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah. I just don't recall babysitting in the job description when I signed up."

" _Quite_. After all, I've been having to do just that for years now."

Vi returns to the Sheriff's side, and the remark clicks in her head. "Hey! You knew what you were getting yourself into when you asked me to join!"

The two begin bantering about their partnership, and Riven catches up to the mercenary-knight.

"I'm already having reservations about your plan," she clutches her sword tightly, a nerve struck.

"Try to endure it a little longer. We've stepped into some sensitive territory with them, too," Ephrial takes the situation in as a whole. "Who knows…maybe you two might even wind up getting along," he shrugs.

The ex-soldier gives him an unamused look. "Is that an attempt at humor?"

"We're here," the Sheriff announces.

"Alright, Cait. You play good cop, I'll play **_bad_** cop," Vi launches her fist into her palm.

"Remember, we are here to try to obtain her assistance, not to assault her."

"Speak for yourself."

The party passes through a pair of large doors, with another set just after them. As the steel barriers open way, the dim scenery becomes brightly lit. A small room is revealed, with a single table in the middle. On the opposite side is a huge threat to the city in a small package. Sitting in front of them is the blue-haired maniac known as Jinx, a criminal wanted for more charges than can be counted.

Her arms are crossed, staring at all those that enter, especially Vi. The Loose Cannon is bound by heavy chains clasped around her wrists and ankles, barely small enough to fit her skinny physique. She is dressed in black and white stripes; prison clothes that are about one size too big. While not mandatory, the matching hat rests on her head upon her own request. With a scowl on her face, she sits silently, waiting while impatiently tapping her finger on her arm.

"Alright, Jinx. Let's get this over with," Caitlyn slaps down an overfilled folder that has been wrapped with twine to keep from spilling.

"I'm not talking until I have my lawyer!" the twin-tailed menace revolts.

"You think you have a choice!? Listen here you little—!" Vi explodes.

 _"_ _You don't have to answer that!"_ Jinx suddenly raises a sock-covered arm, mimicking mouth movements with her hand, and speaking in an exaggeratedly deep voice.

"Tsk! **There** you are!" speaking in her natural tone again.

The Enforcer gives her a funny look, and becomes more infuriated with her antics. "Alright, kid! Your little sock puppet looks thirsty. How about I offer it some **_punch_**!" raising a mechanical fist.

"That's enough," Caitlyn stops Vi, then turns to Jinx. "Do you know why we are here?"

The crazed girl exchanges looks with her pretend lawyer, which gives her a nod. Jinx switches back to the officers, "Well, it isn't for a cup of tea, that's for sure."

Piltover's Sheriff pulls out the invoice she had received from Ephrial, placing it flatly on the desk, and slides it over to Jinx on the other side. "Why attack these places?"

Glancing at the paper, "Pfffft. I don't know. _You_ tell **me** , 'Detective'. Do I _look_ like the kind of girl that makes a list?"

"Do you have a partner we don't know about?"

"Spare me the twenty questions—I know why you're here," rolling her eyes. "You need my help, don't you?" an impishly sharp grin carves its way on her face.

The officers look at her in moderate surprise. They are used to her always being one step ahead, but she still manages to shock them, even after being arrested.

"Come ooooon, admit it!" Jinx continues. "The large, intimidating file, like I care what I did? Dragging me into an 'interrogation', as if that's going to go anywhere? The 'Exiled One' and the Newbie over there in the corner? And look! You two even ditched the uniforms and put on the clothes from back when we first met! It's like a family reunion, with some plus-ones!"

"This approach was never going to work, even without Riven and I being present," the mercenary-knight speaks, arms folded in patient observation. "She's crazy; not stupid. We should probably stop treating her as such."

"Thaaank yooou," Jinx displays slightly exaggerated, but honest appreciation.

"Since when did you become a criminal expert?" Vi turns around, feeling trespassed."

Jinx begins making funny faces at Vi behind her back, alternating between various expressions and looks every few seconds.

"Probably by the time I was her age," Ephrial implies the lesser-known part of his past. "People only do extreme things out of ambition of some form. Otherwise, there's no reason to go out of one's way to do what they do. In Jinx's case, she's always been forthright about it. Her motivation is self-entertainment, as you two are no doubt familiar with."

"Quit stating the obvious and get to the point!" impatience stirs.

"Tracking down the unpredictable is a different story, which is where she comes in. However, as with most people, there needs to be an incentive to trigger some sort of cooperation."

"Hold on. Are you saying we should let her blow up a building just so she would help us out!?"

"Not quite."

Vi turns back to Jinx, who is caught sticking her tongue out at her. She quickly retracts it, and looks innocently at the ceiling.

"What is it you propose then?" Caitlyn rests her hand on her hip.

"The proposition is not mine to make," Ephrial looks at Jinx.

A Chained Cannon looks at each of them in silence a moment, then leans over to her side. She begins whispering back and forth with her sock puppet, covering their 'conversation' with her other hand, and briefly pausing to look at the others again before continuing.

Vi slams her knuckles into the steel table with a loud bang, cratering the metal into a cast of her fist.

Jinx breaks away from her puppet and clears her throat. She straightens her posture, holding a position of refinement and poise, as if mocking a noble. "I will help you free of charge."

"Wait, wha—" the Enforcer, taken by the unexpected answer.

"On two conditions!"

"…Do you even know what **_'free'_** means!?"

"Well, I had to make it dramatic somehow! Duh!"

"All right, spit it out. What do you want?" Caitlyn asks.

"First condition! I demand the immediate release of Fishbones, with full pardon to all his crimes, past and future!"

"You mean that annoying rocket launcher of yours? No way!" Vi snaps.

"Hey, you have your partner, he has his," pointing at her, then Ephrial. "I'm outnumbered here!"

"Forget it! The only way you're getting that lame shark back is after I gut it and let you have what's left!"

Jinx gives a long, exaggerated gasp. "You wouldn't! Well, you would. And just like that, I'm not helping!" crossing her arms, and turning her head away in a stuck-up manner of defiance.

"I'll give you five good reasons to change your mind!" ready to clobber her again.

"We can have the boys back at the lab disable it, making sure it does not pose a threat."

Vi snorts, lowering her arm in reluctance.

"What is your second condition?" the Sheriff demands.

"You two have to call me 'Super Mega Bullet Master' from now on!" pointing at the officers.

"What the hell kind of condition is that!" Vi erupts again.

 _"_ _Those are my client's conditions, and we're sticking to them!"_ poor sock-ventriloquism at work.

"Why aren't _they_ supposed to call you that!?" extending a hextech palm at the two swordsmen.

"You're the reason I'm locked up here, and _they're_ the reason I'm being set free! Doy!"

"Let's get this straight right now. You are, by no means, being set 'free'. You will remain in our custody the entire time, and you will be deposited in the maximum-security penitentiary as soon as this is over," Caitlyn says, coldly.

"Fiiiiiiiine!" an overemphasized sigh.

"As soon as you step out of line, just once, say good-bye to all your teeth!" Vi leans in.

"Ah-ah-ah!" Jinx wags a finger. "'Say good-bye to all your teeth,' _what_?" pushing for her new title.

"You can't be serious…"

"No. No, I can't," she rests her chin on her hand in a carefree manner, speaking with a likewise tone. "Why are **you** so serious all the time?"

Piltover's Enforcer grits her teeth, locking a death stare with her grinning rival.

"Now that that's out of the way, tell us what you know. You're clearly more aware of the situation than we had previously thought," Ephrial moves things forward.

Reddish eyes of insanity turn to the inquiring mercenary. "Well, I know whoever is responsible for these pathetic displays used me as their scapegoat."

"Are you saying we caught you by…mistake?" Caitlyn's expression changes.

"Well, of course! C'mon, you think you would have caught me _that_ easily? Pffft. It was a **fluke!** "

"So that's why you're willing to aid us. Payback, is it?" Ephrial states.

"Hey, we had a nice game of 'catch me if you can' going on, and they had to come along and ruin it!" referring to the seemingly endless chase between her and Piltover's Finest. "Besides, revenge is best served face-to-face, right, Hot Stuff?"

The mercenary-knight ignores what could either be a reference to his fiery blade and business with Warwick, or a personal advance. "Where do we begin?"

She promptly holds out her shackles in front of the officers, tilting her head in a pout. Caitlyn sighs, taking out a key, and releases her, against every instinct she has as a policewoman. Jinx rubs her wrists, puppet lawyer still attached.

"Alright, now the kickers!" stretching her feet outward.

"No way!" Vi objects. "You're lucky you're not coming along tied up in a straightjacket and muzzle!"

"If we're going to get her out unseen, we should depart now," the Sheriff looks at the hextech clock on the wall.

"Eh, that clock's five minutes ahead," looking at the watch she had built in one of her gauntlets. "We still have time to further our arrangements…" Vi threateningly flexes her mechanical digits at Jinx.

"The earlier, the better."

"Come on, people! Let's get this show on the road!" an enthusiastic menace pops up from her chair, and starts toward the door.

"Hold it, twerp!" Vi grabs her by one of her braids. "We can't just let you walk out of the station looking like you just broke out!"

"I **_am_** breaking out, Fathands! In fact, you two are my accomplices!"

"You're going undercover, and for that, you've got to look the part. And I've got something special in mind just for you…" Vi grins at her, a turn of pace that unsettles Jinx.

"Let's get going," Caitlyn opens the doorway.

Jinx takes her hair back, and takes a few steps toward the exit. She stops a brief moment, as if forgetting something, and takes off her pretend lawyer. With a slight toss, the prison-striped sock lands on the battered table. She shapes her hand like a gun, and takes a phantom shot at it, blowing away invisible smoke right after.

"You're fired."


	34. Chapter 34: On the Case

**-  
Chapter 34**

 _ **On the Case**_

"I look ridiculous," an annoyed Jinx examines herself.

She tugs at the ribbon tied to the front of what looks like a school uniform from a popular, animated broadcast. Long, navy blue gloves match the thigh-high stockings, and star logos brand her shoes and shirt. The braids of her hair have been undone, let loose in long, wavy tails, and dyed a crimson red. Only the short-shorts remain her style of clothing, and a disarmed Fishbones hangs strapped to her back.

"Ugh! It's like a dragon ate a bunch of fairies, like that purple yordle's, then barfed all over me! Did you really have to make it sparkle so much!?" she complains, trying to wipe glitter off of her fingertips.

"Aww, somebody feewing upset?" Vi pinches her cheek in a patronizing tone, further rubbing it in.

"Right, then." Caitlyn clasps Jinx's hands in sturdy cuffs, "Off we go."

"Hey! I thought we had an understanding!"

"Too bad those weren't one of your conditions!" Vi pushes her toward their destination, "Let's go, Twinkletoes."

The group makes their way to the underground parking lot of the police station, footsteps echoing in the empty space. They approach a row of police hexcycles, two-wheeled vehicles of speed and narrow size, designed for the most heated pursuits.

"Ooh, ooh! I call the black and white one!" Jinx hops up and down, pointing ahead.

"They're all the same color…" Riven says flatly.

"I know; how _boriiiing_!" she reveals her point.

"You're riding with me, 'Super Mega Sparkle Master'!" Vi hops onto a cycle.

Jinx rolls her eyes, following with a reluctant grunt.

"You had better not try anything, or I might 'accidentally' mistake you for a speed bump," she warns the Loose Cannon.

"Time to pay a visit to a certain baron," Caitlyn says, boarding her own transportation.

"What? You mean the one that supposedly signed for all those 'repairs'? Do you know how easy it is to forge a signature? C'mon, Teabiscuit, I thought you were better than that," Jinx gives her a dull look.

"You're saying they would actually return to the scene of the crime?"

"Duuuh! I do it all the time! Well, what's left of them."

"If they are so smart as to avoid leaving all but one clue, and to use you as their dupe, why would they be so amateur as to make a mistake like that?"

"Because to them, you've already caught your suspect! Now all they have to do is finish what they started."

"With the invoice we obtained, we know these 'random' attacks were, in reality, not so random. What's the connection between them? What are they after?" Ephrial inquires.

"Well if I told you that, it would take all the fun out of this!"

"There's no time to be flatfooting around. Let's go," the Sheriff proceeds to take point.

"Buckle up!" Vi revs the engine.

"I think Tophat has enough belts on for all of us," Jinx comments on Caitlyn's attire.

Vi begins burning rubber, and Jinx jerks backwards with the sudden momentum. With safety far from ever being her concern, the manic girl finds joy in the rush, raising her cuffed hands as if on a ride at an amusement park.

The mercenary-knight approaches one of the hexcycles, swinging his leg over, and getting settled.

"Have you ever driven one of these before?" Riven asks, looking at the streamline form of a vehicle foreign to her.

"I suppose so. That would depend on your definition of 'drive', and how far back in time still counts. Though, how hard can it be to get back into it? It's like…riding a bike," lighthearted humor at work. "Have you?"

Riven warily boards the pinnacle of ground transportation in Piltover. "Not exactly," thinking back to Kirin and her Roadrunner.

"Riding has to be a little uneasy, always having your sword out like that. Have you ever thought about getting a sheathe for it?

"It's an ongoing endeavor."

"Here we go. Hang on!" Ephrial twists the handle, and the motor roars lively with power.

The ex-soldier grips her blade tightly, and slowly wraps her other arm around her partner to keep from falling off. She suddenly finds herself holding her breath, feeling almost embarrassed. Riven attempts to shake off the feeling, puzzled by it, and begins to focus on her objectives, as her training would have her do. A slight rise in temperature endures as they zip up the ramp, reaching the streets outside.

Their hair whips in the wind as they speed through the lit streets of Piltover. They pass underneath the glow of various signs, blinking neon colors in advertisement for business. Hextech vehicles of different sizes whirr past them as the two weave in between. A smooth ride seems to be going easy as the nightlife in the City of Progress is spaced out enough to avoid having to slow down. A transmitter clicks on the controls in front of Ephrial, with Caitlyn on the other side.

 _"_ _The site is approximately twenty miles ahead. Stick to the road until you hit a forced left turn."_

Tall buildings become parted in between smaller property spaces, allowing the group to see more of the starlit sky surrounding them. Ephrial looks up, spotting a large zeppelin hovering at low altitude, not very far off.

"Caitlyn, what's Piltover's regulation for airborne vehicles being close to the ground?"

 _"_ _Unless it's a police matter, no aircraft is allowed to be less than seven hundred feet above, with the exception of landing zones. That zeppelin is in clear violation."_

Sparks appear on the ground in front of Vi's cycle, causing her to swerve out of the path of the oncoming trail. _"Whoa! Where did that come from!?"_

Ephrial and Riven find themselves the next targets, as a stream of projectiles dances in their path. They dip out of the way, and resume avoiding a now panicking flow of traffic.

"It looks like they were expecting us," the mercenary-knight eyes a set of three bogeys above, reforming to their right.

Bearing no markings, these copter-like aircrafts resemble that of Corki's, only large enough for a human, and less clunky. The group finds themselves under fire in waves as these foes circle above, shining blinding spotlights down upon them.

 _"_ _We might as well have put targets on our backs! No one's wearing a badge, but we're still on_ _ **police**_ _cycles, speeding down the highway while ignoring every one of Teatime's precious traffic laws! They could spot us a mile away!"_ Jinx chimes in.

 _"_ _Let's split up. I'll have a better shot if they are distracted,"_ Piltover's Sheriff tells the others as she veers off to the left.

 _"_ _Just save some for me! I need to lay the beatdown on somebody,_ _ **big time!**_ _"_ Vi takes the next right, still frustrated about the current arrangement.

 _"_ _You couldn't catch_ _ **me**_ _without some help. What makes you think you can catch one of_ _ **those**_ _things, Fathands!?"_ Jinx giggles.

 _"_ _Oh, I'm not worried about it. I'll have a special punching bag at the ready, just in case!"_

"It seems like we'll be taking the fun route, Riven. Hang tight!" Ephrial twists the handlebar to full-throttle.

The pair race ahead, holding the attention of one of the copters as the other two split for the rest. Bullets begin to rain down upon them, shooting out streetlights and automobiles caught in the crossfire. Vehicles collide into buildings and each other as they find themselves in danger, creating a chaotic road ahead of the travelers as they zoom through.

"I don't understand… They were getting away clean with Jinx taking the fall. Why would they reveal themselves like this?" Riven yells through the speeding wind.

"Perhaps they are on edge after we took down Slater. After messing around in a town under the jurisdiction of a legendary detective, they might have thought they had less time they had planned for. This is most likely their way of panicking." Ephrial responds.

"Still, it seems like a rather messy course of action to an otherwise organized operation."

"Messy usually means desperate. Desperate criminals usually mean we're on to something."

An explosion rings out in the distance, and a brief puff of orange light fills the night sky toward their left. The sound of metal combusting on collision echoes throughout the alleyways.

 _"_ _Nice one!"_ Vi lets out.

 _"_ _Lead them towards me. I am located two klicks West of your position, Vi,"_ Caitlyn reaches through the radio.

 _"_ _You got it!"_

Riven and Ephrial spot the Zaunites speed across the distant intersection ahead of them, barreling towards the Sheriff as per instruction. They follow suit, and pull into the next left, narrowly diving in between a large delivery truck and honking civilian vehicles. The pursuing aircraft is forced to increase altitude, flying above them, just out of range of fire.

Before the two can reach the end of the street, the enemy descends into the clearing ahead, letting out a barrage of bullets from a three-barreled minigun of hextech design.

The Blazing Swordsman quickly draws his weapon, leaning the bike towards the right, while plunging the fiery blade into the asphalt. Sparks and flames flicker and fly as metal grinds against rock, slowing the forward momentum and sharply shifting the position of the hexcycle. Smoking rubber streaks a black trail behind, violently kicking up the loose bits of ground as they skid onward. The two manage to barely avoid the high caliber rounds, making an abrupt turn into the dark alley adjacent to them. Another blast echoes in the distance, somewhere ahead.

 _"_ _Boom! Headshot!"_ Vi cheers.

 _"_ _Two down, one to go. What's your location, Ephrial?"_

"Headed your way."

"There's a locked gate ahead!" Riven points out in front.

"Not for long."

Leaning backwards, the mercenary-knight pops the front wheel of the hexbike off the ground, using it as a battering ram. The rusty lock gives way, and the fence bashes wide open. A slight squeal lets out as the tire meets the ground again, and the pair exit the detour.

They find themselves in an open area, next to the park where the zeppelin hangs low. Trees and grass fill their surroundings, and a narrow road is all that guides them. A sound of air being rapidly chopped emerges behind them, and a spotlight fixes on top of their location.

"I can't give you more of a clear shot than this," the mercenary-knight weaves between streams of lethal projectiles, the ground being torn away all around them.

 _"_ _Almost…"_ the Sheriff calculates her mark.

A deafening blast, and a heavy shockwave erupts from behind. The aircraft dissolves into flaming pieces of debris, showering down like fireworks.

 _"_ _Coooool!"_ Jinx comments over the broadcast.

 _"_ _Just what kind of ammunition are you packing, Cait?"_ Vi says in surprise.

 _"_ _That was not me…"_

A faint blast comes from their side, and like an echo, an explosion responds out in front of the Noxians. The assault nearly knocks them off their ride, and the two turn their attention toward the source of the artillery.

The zeppelin shifts its course along their own, and puffs of smoke appear off the side of it. Fire showers down upon them, crashing into the park in a series of blasts. A peaceful reserve finds itself the home of new, smoldering craters with each passing second.

 _"_ _Geez, Cait! Take that thing down already!"_ the Enforcer watches from afar.

 _"_ _It's out of my range!"_ looking through her scope.

 _"_ _Wait, what's it doing now?!"_

The onslaught of heavy weaponry ceases, and the aircraft alternates its track.

 _"_ _It's…setting itself on a collision course with Arvino manor!?"_

Ephrial shifts his gaze, confirming Caitlyn's observation. "Was that their intention the whole time…?"

With a sense of urgency, the mercenary cuts through the grass, winding around trees and benches. Pushing the hexcycle to its limits, he gets ahead of the accelerating blimp.

"What are you doing?" Riven braces herself again.

"It's probably best if I don't tell you right away."

"Ephrial…!" equal parts concerned and angry at his knack for dangerously improvised plans, even for Noxian standards.

"Things are going to get even bumpier, so get ready!"

The bold mercenary-knight wheelies the cycle into the large doors of a skyscraper. Taken by an unprecedented surprise, the people inside shout and dive out of the way. The engine's roar echoes inside the walls of a polished establishment as the pair navigate their way toward the stairs. Wide tires make it easy to climb the flights as they quickly race up to one of the highest floors.

 _"_ _Ephrial, I lost visual of you! What's your position!?"_ Caitlyn cracks on the radio.

"About…four-hundred feet up, and counting."

 _"_ _What…?"_

"You'll see soon."

Several additional flights up, and Ephrial grinds the bike to a halt at the edge of a long hallway. At the other end is a very large, decorative window, and a moving shadow begins approaching just below, blotting out the lights from the park and street.

"All right, it's your turn to drive!" Ephrial dismounts, and swaps places with Riven.

"What!? What are you—!?"

"Teaching you how to ride one of these things," taking her sword, and setting it off to the side, against a wall.

"Right now!? This isn't—!"

"Look, it's easy," guiding her hands to the handlebars. "Twist this handle back to go, and squeeze these levers to stop. I'm actually going to need you to concentrate mostly on this brake more than the other. Nearly flipping the bike is kind of necessary for this."

"You want me to flip the bike!?"

" ** _Nearly_** flip it over. I'd rather not die by vehicular manslaughter."

"It sounds like that's _exactly_ what you're asking for!"

"Okay, here we go. I need you to go full-speed ahead, and stop just before the window."

"I-I…!" struggling to comprehend his plan, as well as the sudden instructions of the hexbike in the middle of an intense situation.

"It's alright, Riven. You've got this," shifting himself, and planting his boots on the seat. "I trust you."

Those last three words ring in her ears for a moment, almost pausing time itself. While he has already demonstrated his confidence in her on previous occasion, there is value in hearing it said directly, especially the first time. If there remains only a single, solitary soul that would believe in her, even after everything she has done, who is she to refuse him?

The Exile takes a deep breath, and re-opens her eyes with steady Noxian confidence. "Here we go."

Ornate carpeting finds itself shredding underneath the spinning tire of the rear wheel, and skid marks imprint heavily on the furnished wood. The hexcycle blazes forward on a straight path, toward a fragile portal leading to death by gravity. With a loud shriek, the brakes on the front wheel vice it from spinning, and the vehicle screeches as it slips forward, lurching over itself.

Using the propulsion of the thrust as a catapult, Ephrial leaps off, shielding his face as he crashes through the window. Shimmering bits of glass cascade down below as he approaches his landing. His body flies across the gap between the zeppelin and certain death, brave resolve tempting the very fate that chases him.

The mercenary-knight bounces and rolls off the inflated surface of the airship's envelope. He manages to grab a rope on one of the ridged lines of the craft's frame, preventing himself from rolling off the other side.

"Heh, I know what you're thinking, Sheriff," feeling her scope's sights on him as he gets on his feet. _"What's that vigilante up to? Something stupid? Dangerous, perhaps?"_ drawing his fervent blade. "A little of column A, a little of column B."

He sprints forward, slashing the balloon at his feet with every step. Air begins to spew out from the small slices, causing them to tear open further, and feed the burning flames that start to eat away at the material. Almost immediately, the zeppelin begins to tilt downward, twisting off course, and steadily losing altitude at an accelerated rate.

As the swordsman reaches the nose of the blimp, he dissects a sizable portion of the metal fin in his path, carrying it with him. A flashing blade severs a rope tied to the frame of the deflating aircraft. He slides himself off the edge, sheathing his sword, and grasps the loose end. Ephrial swings below, dangling under the gondola, where the passengers of the zeppelin look on.

The ground approaches swiftly, and he tosses the carved metal downward, catching it between his feet and the grass below. Holding fast to the binding, he finds himself surfing along the park, being towed by a giant, burning fireball. Releasing the rope, he brands his blade again, plunging it into the ground behind himself in order to slow down.

A flaming balloon speeds ahead of him, taking an awkward dive into a clearing. With a thunderous explosion, the night air ignites a bright orange with flames and flying embers scattering into oblivion. The devastating blast is backed by what can only be explosive devices onboard, causing an inferno like a comet's aftermath.

Ephrial sees the wing of the eruption ahead, and twists his blade as it carves through the ground, using it as a rudder in an attempt to steer away. For a brief moment, he disappears into the burning cloud, shooting out of the other side, tumbling as the metal under his feet flips over. Having decelerated enough, his plunge is far from lethal, and he skids to the foot of a very large, prestigious dwelling.

"You really do know how to make an appearance, don't you?" a familiar voice speaks above him.

Ephrial picks himself from off the ground, and looks at the top of the finely-chiseled stairs out in front. A young woman stands there, with the company of dozens of private security guards rushing to the scene. Clearly a person of heavy influence, her flowing locks of red hair and adorned white dress announce her as nobility.

"Sophia…?"


	35. Chapter 35: Invitation

**-  
Chapter 35**

 ** _Invitation_**

The room is lavish with silk curtains, portraits framed in gold, and ornate pottery on display. A gilded rug paves the room, and marble columns support a painted ceiling; a historic mural depicting the rise of Piltover through technological progress. Every square inch of the space is the image of nobility and influential power.

"Have you any idea why you would be their prime target?" Caitlyn questions the dainty Sophia.

"I am an Arvino. There is hardly a price too hefty for a clan to rid themselves of a competing baron or baroness. It is not a normal day for me if I do not find my life threatened in one form or another."

"I have already taken into account your status in society, but what I am more concerned with is why _you_ are on the top of their list. Your…competition does not show itself on the surface very often," the Sheriff's eyes narrow, familiar with Piltover's Underground.

"Should I come to any conclusion on the matter, however small, I shall be the first to let you know. It is with great appreciation that I thank you all for saving my family's lives, as well as my own."

"Things do keep pointing to a rival clan, the more this goes on. The funding for the brand of technology used tonight was not lacking," Ephrial enters the chambers. "Those clearing the wreckage down below say there were no bodies recovered…just mechanical parts."

"Completely automated pilots? Hm…I suppose that's why they were able to attack in the open. They were certain they would leave no trace of themselves, no matter the result," Caitlyn rests her chin on her fist in thought.

"There you are! I was worried you had departed without saying anything again," Sophia lights up at the mercenary-knight's presence.

"You two know each other?" Vi raises an eyebrow.

"I should hope so! He saved my life, years ago. Apparently, he's returned to do just the same."

"It didn't have enough punching for my taste, but I'll admit, that was one impressive smackdown! Didn't know you had it in ya!" giving him a hard, mechanical fist to the shoulder.

The mercenary-knight finds himself reminded of similarly rough gestures of acknowledgement in his time in the Freljord.

"It could've had a _teeny_ bit more explosions in the mix, buuuut not a bad start, Torchy!" Jinx, still a bit excited from the fiery eruption.

"Who is that again…? She looks familiar…" Sophia notes the pale complexion of the odd character.

"She's…an exchange student," Vi suppresses the Loose Cannon with a giant hand. "Due to various complaints, we decided to take her on our ride along program. You know, scare the delinquency out of her."

"I thought you said you were off duty, and that's why you would rather not be downstairs with the rest of the police?"

"It's an awkward arrangement, to say the least," Ephrial cuts in to bail them out. "What matters right now is that your life is clearly in danger. It would appear the Thatermauges are all but gone."

"The…Thatermauges…?" the baroness, giving a look of disbelief.

"Ephrial stated that he had encountered Slater Thatermauge in a recent event," Piltover's Sheriff adds.

"It can't be…!" placing her hand over her mouth, taking a few uneasy steps backward, as if reliving a past trauma.

"It's alright. He's gone. This time, for good," Ephrial assures her. "As for any others, that remains to be determined."

"…I see."

"My apologies for the stress you must be undergoing right now, but there is still the matter of some unexplained evidence at hand. Do you know of anyone who signed the authorization for this?" Caitlyn holds up the invoice of the work order that commenced their investigation.

"Y-yes…" recomposing herself. "I am the one that signed for it."

The group exchanges glances at the development.

"Can you tell us _why?_ " the officer insists.

"Those areas were in less than adequate condition for the event to come!"

"What event?" the mercenary asks.

"She means the annual Masquerade. Piltover's Ball of Peace through Progress," Caitlyn deduces.

"It has been a long-standing tradition for decades now. While it is mainly an occasion for the important figures of Piltover to gather and celebrate the year's advancements towards the future, it attracts the attention of many nobles from other city-states. That is why I had hoped our fair city would look its best."

"That still doesn't explain why these areas were specifically targeted for attack."

"The only thing I can come up with is that the majority of places on that list fall under districts belonging to other families. They might have taken insult that I had resolved it upon myself to have the areas fixed up. I merely thought of it as an offering to start off the ball with good will. What was intended to be only a gesture of peace appears to have backfired into a declaration of war," a troubled Sophia explains.

"The nature of your business is paved with even more arrogance than I thought," Piltover's top investigator glares, having new insight on the ways of the city's secret family wars.

"I understand your skepticism, officer. While my position limits my words on the subject, all I can do is offer you my assurance that I am trying for a peaceful Piltover, with a prosperous future for all. I have already seen the dark side of progress…and I wish for no more than to see it rid of."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"Cut her some slack, Cait. Thanks to her, we're not outside right now, being scolded by the commissioner. With any luck, they might not find traces of your bullets in the copters you aced," Vi tries to loosen her up.

"Perhaps it is not under the best of circumstances, though it is the most opportune, I would ask you a favor in turn," Sophia interjects.

"So, it begins," Caitlyn crosses her arms.

"With the Masquerade being so close at hand, and with all the trouble that has unfolded in such a short span, I would feel a lot safer if you were all to attend. Of course, all expenses will be paid in full by House Arvino."

"You want us to go undercover? With all those fancypants, gold-dust eating stiffs? While wearing a pretty princess dress with too many layers? Pfft! Forget it! I ain't getting in one of those things!" Vi protests.

"I understand it is a Masquerade, but with all due respect, Vi and I are too high-profile to go unnoticed in a gathering of many we have solved cases for," the Sheriff points out.

"Your concerns are warranted, especially since, as tradition would have it, everyone drops their masks toward the end of the ceremony. However, as equally noticed your presence will be, so would your absence. After all, your family's inventions played a big role in Piltover's history."

"Even so, the attention would not allow me anywhere near out of the line of sight of prying eyes. I know you nobles are especially wary of having all your assets covered in these social gatherings."

"Indeed. That is why I am proposing these honored guests attend," looking at the two swordsmen. "They would be much harder to recognize in a crowd, especially being outsiders to the city. I don't think we could be any safer with four legends of the League watching over us. What do you say, Ephrial?"

"…It sounds like the perfect opportunity to catch our culprit. All of Piltover's most influential figures will be there. If any are not, it should be easy enough to notice. We'll have the advantage of being right where the attack happens, should there be one, or the process of elimination of certain people that make themselves scarce. In all likelihood, it's our best shot for another lead."

Caitlyn sighs. "Very well. We'll play along with this, Vigilante. However, know that we will not have the support of the police. As far as it concerns them, Vi and I are on a leave of absence to wind down after our biggest catch."

Jinx rolls her eyes, and begins tapping her foot in growing impatience.

"We'll be strictly by ourselves on this," the Sheriff adds.

"What do you think, Riven? Care to dance?" cerulean eyes turn to the Exile.

"I-I…I don't—" she stutters, caught off-guard. Turning her head away, looking slightly flustered, "If it will get things back on track, then I will do what I must."

"Fantastic! It's settled, then!" Sophia Arvino lights up. "I'll make arrangements for transportation. There's also the matter of attire, of which, I recommend you visit the tailor, not far from Mercury Labs. Don't worry, I'll be more than glad to cover the charges."

"By the way…just when _is_ this ball?" Ephrial inquires.

"Tomorrow night!"

"That soon, huh?"

"You always did have a thing about timing," a bright smile.

"It seems so…" thinking back to times past.

A private security guard belonging to House Arvino opens the door, taking a step inside. "Pardon me, Baroness. Your presence is required outside."

"It must be time for me to issue a statement to the police. Pray, do not worry. Your names shall be left out of my account. Please excuse me while I take my leave," the noblewoman departs.

"Well, this is certainly a change of events," Vi comments.

"A boring one!" Jinx chimes in.

"Right then. We have just enough time to go over the names and faces of Piltover's most notorious," the city's Sheriff pulls out a heavily set of files.

"Isn't that the same over-filled folder you pulled you when you tried to 'intimidate' me?" She gives an over-exaggerated gasp, "Those aren't my files! Those belong to all the stuck-up fat cats I keep almost blowing up! You knew we were going to be led to Piltover's beloved ball the whole time, didn't you, you clever dog, you!?"

"This isn't my first rodeo."

"If we sneak out now, we can probably leave before the rest of the force shows up to comb the area," Vi tugs Jinx's binds on the way out.

"I'm sure the backway is clear. The nobles are never in short supply of escape routes," Caitlyn picks up her sniper rifle, and follows.

Riven and Ephrial lag behind as they descend the lavish, spiral staircase, assessing the situation between themselves.

"That was the girl you were telling me about at the depot, wasn't she?" she asks.

"Yeah. She's come a long way in a relatively short time. It seems she still has quite a bit to learn."

"You mean her calling for peace with the other aristocratic families?"

"The aim is noble, sure, but her enthusiastic gestures might continue to step on the toes of the other barons. This vying for control and power has gone on since the foundation of Piltover, and the economy practically thrives on it. A change like the one she is aspiring to create would require an extensive level of cooperation among businesses. Needless to say, corporations are born from stepping on those around them, and stay afloat the same way."

"You're saying she's still as naïve as when you first met her," summarizing his premise.

"Perhaps this world needs a bit more of the same brand of naivety."

"Switching your stance, are you?"

"Not at all. While I still view things as how they are, it doesn't blind me from seeing them as how they _could_ be. Change is inspired when thoughts and standards are challenged—ideas that are, at first, considered ignorant, or sometimes dangerous. Things would probably be better with less ambitious, arrogant people, and more of the innocent, naïve type," thinking back to his sister.

"So, you perceive naivety as the opposite of arrogance."

"To a degree."

"Still, the strength of one's self must be as strong as their own ideals."

"That's why it pays not to be alone in them."

"How do you tell when someone is following the person, or just the aspiration?"

"How far they follow."

The two approach the courtyard at the rear of the manor, where the bikes have been hidden away from the investigating law enforcement. Only theirs remains, as the others are seen speeding away in the short, dim tunnel ahead.

Ephrial steps to take hold of the hexcycle's handlebar, getting ready to swing himself over. Riven stops him with a hand to his armor, dropping her keepsake weapon into his hands in an abrupt manner. Puzzled, the mercenary-knight looks at the heavy, sundered weapon, then watches as the Exile hops aboard the vehicle. She revs the engine in a confident fashion, and looks back at him with a slight grin.

"I'll drive."


	36. Chapter 36: Waltz of Blades and Bullets

**-  
Chapter 36**

 _ **Waltz of Blades and Bullets**_

"Sophia is rather quick at making arrangements. I was expecting word being passed along to allow us to select an outfit, not have them chosen for us," Ephrial readjusts an ornate cufflink on a white tuxedo.

Rich material covers his body in the bright style of Piltover's latest fashion. The creases on his slacks are brand new, and the finely stitched fabrics of his coat are sewn to perfection. A masterful yordle puts on the final touch, climbing a ladder to place a red pocket triangle in the front compartment the jacket, and then steps down to admire his work.

"This is absurd," Riven's voice comes from behind the door of an adjacent changing room.

"Come on, it can't be that bad," stepping down from the tailor's fitting platform.

The Exile turns the knob, and lets the door slowly swing open by itself. She stands straight, looking slightly irritated. A long, flowing garb of shining crimson cloaks her in an almost metallic radiance, down to a pair of matching high heels. A white sash wraps around her waist, forming a large bow behind her. The ribbons at the end change from a solid color, to a thin, transparent, decorative lace that drapes down the length of the skirt.

"I find this…uncomfortable. These layers will just get in the way in combat!"

"Be that as it may, we should do these nice couturiers a favor and _try_ not mess up their outfits, should it come to—" his words fade as he turns to see Riven come out of the doorway.

As her gaze rises from her dress, she returns the look with the same hesitance, both hardly recognizing each other. A moment passes, and they both break, snapping back to themselves.

"Our ride should be here soon," he says, twisting the other cufflink in place.

"Right."

They both start toward the door, side by side, until they are halted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. The two turn around, and look down to see the master tailor and his wife holding up a pair of adornments; a solitary red rose, and a corsage of a white rose surrounded by pink cherry blossoms, respectively.

"It's tradition for you to exchange these before embarking to the ball," the master craftsman explains as they present the accessories up to them.

"Tradition, huh?" Ephrial says, picking up the corsage.

Riven receives the vermillion flower, and the pair look at each other with lost expressions. Neither of them have ever known, nor taken part, in such customs that did not involve a brawl of some fashion. To them, it's an entirely new experience in a realm outside of their acquaintance.

The Exile feels an object prod her wrist upward, and she looks down to see a tiny woman guiding her with a measuring stick. Confused, she silently goes along with it. Riven takes her arm back, raising it in front of herself, presenting it to the Blazing Swordsman.

A quick examination of the flowery decoration, and Ephrial puts his best guess to work. He takes her by the hand, and begins carefully wrapping the ornament around his partner's wrist. A silky knot forms and slides into place, and he lets go.

Riven turns her hand over, getting a full view of a piece of tradition from a nation apart from her own. She flexes her fingers, feeling odd that her large gauntlet has been replaced by such a fragile sentiment. Looking down, she realizes the rose in her other grasp, raising it up in further confusion. She switches to the yordle assistant by her side, hoping for a hint of some sort. A nod and smile is all she receives, and Riven recalls the tailor explaining that this was an exchange.

Seeing her in a helpless state of bemusement, the mercenary-knight discreetly points to a tiny hole in his tuxedo's coat. Hesitating a moment, she begins to reach the stem of the rose out to him. Both turn their heads away, awkwardly avoiding eye-contact, and slowly, she plants the flower into its setting.

"I know dresses aren't your thing, but…you look quite nice," a bold mercenary attempts to ease the situation by avoiding an extended silence.

"You're looking rather…debonair yourself," she returns the compliment.

As if on cue, the distinct sound of one of Piltover's unique methods of transportation makes itself heard with a modest honking noise. The two turn their attention toward the door, seeing the silhouette of a vehicle outside.

"Seems our driver is rather punctual," Ephrial takes a step toward the door.

"Agreed."

The swordsmen thank the yordles for their services, and exit the shop. A long, midnight limousine awaits them at the curb. A simple, sleek design, and some very heavily tinted windows, paint the image of luxury transportation.

"Not very subtle, is it?" opening the door for the ex-soldier.

He follows her inside, and they instantly notice a set of small, round devices resting on the seat. Two heavily decorated masks lie next to them, boasting colorful feathers and glittering studs of synthetic, but convincing jewelry. The scenery outside begins to move, and they find themselves on their way to Piltover's annual masquerade.

"What did they do with our weapons?" Riven inquires.

"Caitlyn said Vi will drop them in when we need them."

"I see. …Do you really think there's a connection between Kalamanda and these attacks on Piltover? Everything seems so convoluted. When we arrived, we were searching for answers with Heimerdinger, and within a few days, we're playing undercover police at a special event."

"Things have sure changed quite a bit, haven't they? So far, we've just been chasing disaster after disaster. It can't be a pure coincidence that we located a lead that directed us here, where they are facing their own string of unexplained incidents."

"Do you remember what the summoner had said to us when we rescued him? About the Institute wishing to keep things quiet in order to prevent instability between political agreements amongst the city-states?"

"Yeah. It seems they've been doing a good job in keeping the true state of the League hush-hush, even after all this while."

"What if their aim is to cause exactly that—cause political instability, only one nation at a time?"

Ephrial ponders at the thought. "…You mean the reason whomever is behind the attack on the Institute is purposely taking their time to gradually weaken the city-states? The only ambition in which creating such instability would have a purpose in is an invasion—War."

"Exactly."

The mercenary-knight considers his encounter with Summoner High Councilor Vessaria. She had stated that the newly-promoted Grieve was the one that issued the order to check the nexuses at Kalamanda. That means he was likely to have also sent the summoner Riven has just mentioned to urge them to travel there. If he really is at fault for such a trap, then as an extremely high-ranking infiltrator, he is poised to take hold of the dangerous artifacts in the Arcanum Vault. Weapons such as those could surely bring a divided Runeterra to its knees. However, Vessaria seems to have control of the Vault, biding time. Yet, can she herself be trusted? Perhaps, in light of everything altogether, there's a possibility that there is actually more than one group vying for control of the Institute… Perhaps some with ambitions that spread wider than others.

"…Ephrial?"

"Apologies," snapping himself out of thought.

"You know of something else, don't you…?" eyeing him.

"Nothing that makes sense just yet. If the aim is to destabilize the nations of Runeterra to incite a war, or domination, the essence of that plan would be to rid themselves of those that can oppose them, right? So why scatter all of us and then destroy the nexuses instead of summon us all at once, killing us all then and there? Why make it so unnecessarily elaborate, setting traps for us?" Ephrial brings his hand to his chin, narrowing his eyes in a grave expression. "Unless those traps weren't actually meant for us."

"They could have been meant for misleading and destroying armies, thinning out the biggest military resistances," the ex-soldier pitches.

"If that were true, then the incident with the Master Nexus teleporting everyone away was unintentional. These traps would then actually be their 'Plan B', and that's why there hasn't been any follow-up to the assault as of yet. They have to improvise their way through a major setback."

A small sound emits from the tiny spheres lying beside them, and Ephrial curiously picks one up. He raises it to his ear, and a familiar voice reaches him from the other side.

 _"_ _You there? Hey, can either of you hear me?"_ Piltover's Enforcer calls out.

"Vi…?"

 _"_ _Speak into the cufflinks Cait gave you."_

"Where are you?" raising his wrist to his mouth.

 _"_ _Moving into position. Did you give Tough Girl the corsage?"_

"I can hear you just fine," Riven picks up the second diminutive orb.

"Good. Now listen up! The devices you're holding are heavily modified yawpers I fixed up myself. Put them in your ears so they remain hidden. They work like the radio on the police cycles, but have a far shorter range. There are microphones located in your cufflinks and corsage, so speak into them so we can hear you better."

The mercenary-knight follows her instructions. "Understood."

 _"_ _This is boriiing!"_ Jinx complains in the background of the yawper communications.

 _"_ _No one asked you, Pipsqueak!"_ Vi yells.

A crackle comes into the audio, and another voice enters the conversation.

 _"_ _What's your position?"_ the Sheriff of Piltover asks.

 _"_ _Getting set up on the roof,"_ her partner replies.

 _"_ _Excellent. What of the other two?"_

"Arriving casually late, as requested," Ephrial speaks into his wrist.

 _"_ _Good. You will be responsible for infiltrating the crowd, as well as the upper level of the building."_

"The police have this area wrapped up tightly," looking out the window as they pull up to the front of a large palace.

 _"_ _It's what they don't have access to that I am concerned about,"_ Caitlyn's wariness of the city's nobility.

"See you inside," the vigilante responds as the limousine comes to a halt.

The two don their provided masks, and a valet opens the door, exposing them to the sound of an excited crowd and flashing cameras. Reporters speak to crystal lenses, broadcasting on spinning wires all over the city of Progress. The press appears to be guessing who the guests are as they appear, shouting various names of worth amongst themselves. Ephrial steps out of the vehicle, offering his hand to Riven.

"I can get out fine by myself," agitated at his notion.

"Believe me, I know you're quite capable of handling your own. However, we're here to maintain a guise, and we'll have to play the part."

With a reluctant sigh, she takes his hand and climbs out of the seat. They both proceed down a red carpet, side by side, arms locked. Security keeps the tenacious men and women of the paparazzi at bay as the two enter Progress Palace.

"This is certainly quite a crowd out here. If a certain entity wished to issue a threatening message, this would definitely be the place to do it," he comments.

"Why go through such great lengths to keep things quiet only to announce them in such a public setting?"

"Perhaps because they are getting desperate. Jinx was blamed for the recent attacks, so whomever was actually responsible for them should have been in the clear. It would have made an ideal cover for whatever they had going on. Yet, we were directly attacked out in the open, and with no shortage of commotion. Something must have not gone according to their plans, and they know we're on to them. It would come as no surprise if there are some moles in Piltover's police department, especially if they knew when and where to assault us. Caitlyn is wittingly sticking her head out in their crosshairs tonight."

Ornate halls echo with the muffled sounds of socialization and refined celebration. A poster on the wall apologizes for the absence of the 'Maven of the Strings', advertising a local band as her replacement for the evening's entertainment. As the pair approach the doors, two uniformed men of House Arvino open the way for them. Walking through, they see a vast room with extravagant decorations and an eye for detail. Tables of hors d'oeuvres stacked in an elegant presentation create a colorful palette of appetizing variety. The space is illuminated by two prodigious chandeliers of gold and intricately cut crystals, with bountiful rows of candles.

Many men and women of wealth and status cover the room, greeting each other and making conversation. Though the scene is mixed, there is a clear division to be noticed by a keen eye. Some of the crowd takes an interest in the murals and paintings that decorate the ballroom, and competing inventors brag amongst each other of their research and latest creations. Despite the premise of this annual 'Peace Through Progress', it is quite certain that there are some that are only concerned with the progress of their own profits.

"There's a lot of security here," Riven notes the various groups of bodyguards sticking close to their respective noblemen.

"We're in," the mercenary-knight begins to weave through the crowd, cautiously speaking into the cufflink.

 _"_ _Look up,"_ Vi responds.

The duo takes a glance above, between the spaces of the chandeliers, where a small dome of windows forms a skylight. A pink-haired figure gives them a quick salute with a giant hand through the glass. Beside her, a dolled-up version of the Loose Cannon sticks her tongue out at them.

"Alright, Jinx…what are we looking for?"

 _"_ _A button to blow everything up?"_ a sarcastic answer reaches his ear.

 _"_ _Start being serious, or I'll seriously beat you!"_ the Enforcer yields no patience for her antics.

"Hang on, Vi. That's actually not a bad start. Tell me, Jinx…if you were to blow this place up with a hidden device, where would you place it?"

 _"_ _Ooh! Ooh!"_ she lights up with a spark of excitement. _"I've always wanted to blow up a party like this with a bomb in the big cake they bring out!"_

"Is this even that kind of celebration?" Riven, unfamiliar with formal ceremonies.

"It's not a party without cake. Caitlyn, are you there?"

A moment passes, and a delayed reply comes though. _"Barely. No one's letting me out of their sight for even a moment."_

"Do you know of this event hosting a large, celebratory cake at some point?"

 _"_ _Of course. The most prestigious culinarians are always hired to do a ten-layer cake. Talks of confections aside, I think now would be a good time to mention that I spotted the head of the Cadwalder family leaving through the West exit. It's a little too soon to be leaving the festivities. It might be worth looking into."_

"Well, we have our first two suspects," Ephrial turns to his undercover partner. "Which do you want to take?"

"I'll handle Cadwalder," she starts her way, eager to leave the crowd of dresses and perfume.

"Very well. Quality control duty it is," he begins moving through the crowd, making his way toward the kitchen.

Keen eyes observe his surroundings with every step. Men and women from all over Piltover have rallied together for a supposed annual call for peace. Having placed himself in the middle of many feuds of various kinds, he knows better. It takes more than a buffet and pretty words to incite the following of an ideal.

Surrounding him are glittering jewels and precious metals, flashing from the attire of the vast majority of attendants. Though it is normal for a formal occasion as such, it is still a mere display of wealth; a message to everyone else there. Ambitious motives and fake smiles make it difficult to discern who might be responsible for the recent attacks.

Ephrial spots the corner where the waiters race back and forth, carrying trays of appetizing foods. He comes to the realization that, even though he is not dressed too differently from the servers, he is still lacking an element that would provide a convincing guise that separates him from the party guests. A clumsy-looking butler emerges from the swinging doors, nearly tripping over himself as he steps out onto the ballroom floor.

Closing in on his target, the mercenary-knight flanks from the side, blending in with the crowd. He takes his mask off, tucking it into his jacket, and in a seamless transition, he trips the accident-prone young man, grasping the platter of cheeses into his own hand. Taking his place, Ephrial leaves the confused server to scramble to his feet, desperately trying to recover a phantom mess of spilled hors d'oeuvres. The small commotion doubles as a bonus to keep the attention away from a white tuxedo entering the kitchen.

As he draws closer, he dumps the toothpicks of appetizers into the nearby pot of a large plant, then walks through the doors. Holding a now empty platter on his fingertips, acting as if he belongs there, he passes through several more servers. One of the men takes a look at the empty tray, surprised at the swift rate they all keep rotating.

"Where are they putting all this stuff?"

"Tell me about it. It's almost like they're just throwing them away," Ephrial quips to the unwitting host as they brush past each other.

The mercenary-knight arrives at the engine of the party's food supply. Equipped with hextech burners and stoves, the room hums lively with the movement of man and machine at work. An organized chaos presses for time as orders are shouted back and forth between chefs. Steam and mixed aromas of gourmet creations in-the-making swim through the air, and busy utensils chopping and slicing mix with the clamor.

There are no signs of desserts just yet, so Ephrial proceeds deeper into the establishment. His steps keep at a pace of urgency as to match that of the staff, avoiding attention to himself by not lingering in one spot. Like a ghost, the vigilante slips through another set of doors in the very back, entering an entirely different scene of delectable concoctions. Techmaturgy at work spins and whirrs all around him, mixing bowls of puddings, dough, and batter.

"Alright…if I were a giant cake meant to feed an entire ballroom of people, where would I be…?" thinking aloud to himself.

"Hey, you're not supposed to be in here!" a voice calls from the side.

The swordsman turns, spotting two men in uniform speeding up to him. Their attire is formal and tan colored, identical to Sophia's guards. With caution, one of the private security officers reaches for a hextech pistol tucked in his belt as he approaches the intruder.

"Who are you!?" the second guard demands.

Not giving them a chance to properly react or draw their weapons, Ephrial slings the platter toward the closest one. The reflexes of the guard trigger him to abandon his holster, devoting both hands to catch the saucer in front of his face. A swift mercenary rushes forward, and lands a wheel kick on the adjacent sentry. Before the first can lower the silver platter from his face, a powerful fist launches into it from the other side, sending the plate spinning into the air. As the other guard recovers from a heavy kick to the jaw, Ephrial catches the salver, and hurls it at his head. Both guards surrender to an abrupt unconsciousness.

"I'm the health inspector," straightening his jacket.

Hard-forged skills and strength make short work of Pilties spoiled with firearms, taking care of the situation with minimal effort and noise. Generations of advancement through technology has worn away the roots of combat in the City of Progress, especially hand-to-hand engagements. While minds and tools worked away to create weapons, he worked to create himself to _be_ a weapon.

 _"_ _Everything okay down there?"_ Vi cracks on the modified yawper.

"Nothing to worry about. I'm closing in on our possible threat."

 _"_ _Good to hear. Your girlfriend is making quite a ruckus over at the West wing."_

"She isn't my—"

 _"_ _You two will need to speed things up. Sophia plans on giving her speech soon,"_ Caitlyn chimes in.

Ephrial steps into another room, where the ceiling rises much higher. Resting on a very wide rack is his objective. Clad in white icing and standing over ten feet tall, an oversized, luxurious cake boasts thick layers of sugary glory. The wheels of the cart are locked in place, awaiting the effort of several people to roll it out carefully at the appointed time. On the side is a tall ladder, carefully placed so that the finishing touches can be fixed at the very top.

"Well, I've found our cake."

 _"_ _Any signs it's been tampered with?"_

"None that I can see."

 _"_ _You'll have to dig through it to locate any possible explosives within."_

He examines the colossal baked good. "I figured as much. I'm just wondering how I'll go about that without ruining the thing, for Sophia's sake... Jinx, how big of a device are we looking for?" reaching out for expertise on things of volatile nature.

 _"_ _Hmm…"_ a dark, unpredictable mind ponders. _"If I wanted to blow up only_ _ **half**_ _of these people, I'd saaaay…at least the size of Fathands here."_

 _"_ _Are you saying what I think you're saying!?"_ a vexed Enforcer tenses.

 _"_ _Hahaha!"_ Jinx finds amusement in provoking her keeper.

"A bomb as big as a person…? Or at least a giant gauntlet…" taking Jinx's words with a grain of salt. "If that's the case, then a single cut will do," the mercenary-knight circles the enormous load of frosting.

He looks around the room for some manner of implement to serve his cause. A very long measuring stick, covered in icing, lies jutting out of a basin filled with bowls and beaters. A basic, but precise tool appears to have proven necessary to fill such an immense order. Gladly taking the instrument in his hands, he brings it over to the cake, and ascends the ladder.

With precision and care, he begins using the slender tool as a cutting device, starting from the very center. Slowly, he descends, step by step, making sure not to agitate any possible bomb by hitting it the wrong way.

 _"_ _How's the situation coming along?"_ Vi speaks over the sound of a struggling Jinx trying to get her hair back.

"It's going well so far… I haven't blown up yet."

 _"_ _Better pick up the pace in there. Looks like they're setting up for part of the event."_

"Almost done."

As the mercenary-knight reaches the bottom, and feels a slight change in pressure on the other end of the measuring stick. His hand freezes, and he looks intently at the slim crevice he has carved.

"Oh…fudge."

 _"_ _What happened? Did you find an explosive!?"_ the Enforcer shouts through the communication device.

 _"_ _Ooh! Is there a timer on it? Is it ready to blow!?"_ a quite different type of enthusiasm pours through.

"No, I mean actual fudge. I think the only thing this cake is rigged to explode with is chocolate," pulling out a measuring stick covered in rich, gooey sauce.

Sighs of both relief and disappointment reach his ear through the yawper.

 _"_ _Alright, Fancypants. Start making your way back to the ballroom."_

Using the other side of the stick, Ephrial smooths out the icing he had ruined, covering the exposed bits of cake from the long dissection. "I'll be out there soon. How are things on Riven's end?"

 _"_ _I'll let you know once the yelling stops. I don't think the Cadwalders have anything to do with the attacks, but by the sound of it, this girl packs a punch!"_ approving the Exile's brutality.

"What's next on our agenda?"

 _"_ _You two are to attend Sophia's speech, keeping an eye out for suspicious activity," Caitlyn responds._

"What of you?"

 _"_ _I've managed to lose some prying eyes for the time being. I will be investigating a man I've been watching circle the room. He seemed in a hurry to leave once the guards began closing the doors and drinks were being passed out."_

Ephrial begins making his way back when he sees the two men he has left unconscious, both lying out in the open. He locates a nearby pantry, with plenty of room to spare after much of the stock has been exhausted for the night. Quietly, the mercenary-knight drags the two guards inside, and closes the doors on them. Looking around for a suitable object to bar them inside, he finds a javelin on the broom rack.

"What's a spear doing in a bakery…?" finding it somehow oddly familiar.

Sliding the sturdy weapon through the handles of the pantry doors, he departs in the same way he had previously entered. He slips his mask back on as he pushes past the swinging doors. The cool air of the ballroom greets him as he strides back, once more blending in with the crowd.

Everyone's attention becomes pulled by the entrance of Sophia Arvino, walking to the overhanging balcony. All eyes turn upward toward the sound of a voice empowered by a sound-amplifying crystal on the podium.

"Thank you, one and all, for coming to this banquet! For those unfamiliar with me, I am Lady Sophia Caroline Arvino, daughter of Magnus Arvino. As many of you know, I have been filling in for my father's duty, taking my place as Baroness of the Arvino clan for a long time…and what a trying time it has been…for all of us," looking at the crowd with sincere eyes.

She takes a deep breath, and her tone becomes firmer with confidence. "Ever since I was a child, I would constantly be asked how I viewed things. My father would ask what I saw when I looked at the city of Piltover. What I saw when I looked at its people. I would never really have an answer for him, but he would always tell me his. He told me he saw the future—a bright and wondrous light that illuminates the dark path ahead as we venture into the unknown. Progress at its finest…its boldest."

Faces in the crowd begin to smile, familiar with her father's bright vision.

"As a child, it is hard to grasp the concept of the future. They always live in the here-and-now, unconcerned with what lies tomorrow. Yet, perhaps it is that innocence with the notion of 'tomorrow will always come' that the founders of our fine city lived by. Tomorrow is always a new day, but what we do today can make it a _great_ day. All things, progress included, come with time. With time, comes thoughts, and those thoughts grow into ideas. In Piltover, ideas become reality, shaping the future into possibilities only limited by our unbridled imagination."

Charmed by her words, the crowd silently nods in agreement. Piltovans, along with some investors from other city-states, become moved with pride in how far they have advanced in the name of progress. As the undercover swordsman keep an eye out, they find no shortage of attention span directed at the speaker.

"I think now, after all this time, I finally have an answer for my father if he were to ask me what I see in Piltover… I see brilliance in the minds and talents of our people; a clockwork heart formed by the strong desire and hard labor of those brave enough to envision the future, and take it upon their own hands to mold the world around them into what they themselves see. The uniqueness of each and every one of us is a gear that spins and grinds on with the same drive. This very day is set to remind us that when we work together, everything fits into place, and all gears function to the same cause. United, we form an unstoppable machine, paving the way for all to follow—a shining beacon for peace! Peace through Progress!"

Sophia raises a glass of champagne, and the crowd follows suit. Applause thunders through the ballroom, and men, women, and yordle alike cheer at this year's host for Piltover's annual masquerade.

The band begins filling the room with music, playing a mixture of classic instruments, each with a twist of hextech in them. Glowing strings vibrate with an elegance, humming with a pitch of techmaturgy for peak perfection.

Pairing up, the members of the crowd soon take a spot on the vast floor, and begin to take part in the dance. Ephrial turns to see Riven standing behind him. They exchange looks, and realize, with the exception of the security guards, they are the only ones not participating.

"A—Are we supposed to…?" the Exile hesitates.

Ever cool and collected, Ephrial extends his hand out. "It couldn't hurt… Not as much as it did Cadwalder."

"I—if I must…" with an odd mix of frustration and a feigning, weary reluctance, Riven gives into a charming grin. She steps forward, and places her hand in his, avoiding direct eye-contact.

Caught off-guard by another hand gently placing itself on her side, she stiffens tensely, giving Ephrial a hard glare. Slowly, they start moving, and she once more averts her eyes. Noticing how everyone else is dancing, she slowly raises her other hand to Ephrial's shoulder with uncertainty. The Exile examines herself, a warrior of Noxus, fierce and renown, now wearing a dress and dancing in a Piltover ball. Never has wandering alone taken her through such provoking experiences.

"T—the Cadwalders didn't have a hand in the recent events," focusing back on the mission.

"Going by how Vi commented on the situation, I doubt they'll be involved in any future schemes as well."

"It was…just a misunderstanding," she says guiltily. "How did your objective go?"

"It was…a piece of cake," that roguish grin appears again, lightening her up with wordplay.

Riven shakes her head, exhaling while suppressing a smile. Her eyes meet his, and she begins finding herself oddly relaxed. Though caught in a vastly unfamiliar setting, and circumstances she considers uncomfortable, she finds solace in not being alone. Of course, a piece of her will always be isolated in her time of sin and regret… Yet, for now, a calm blue distracts her.

"…How do you know how to dance? From your last trip here in Piltover?" she inquires.

"Just now, really."

"What do you mean 'just now'…?" confused.

"I merely took note of how some of the others were dancing. In a manner of sorts, it's kind of like combat. The same way I recognize and adapt to the patterns of my enemies, or learn new styles of bladework, I just…do."

"That fast?"

"Well, this is just a dance, not a whole new sword technique. I believe this is called a 'waltz'. A slow one."

Suddenly feeling clueless again, she looks down at her feet. "Am I doing this correctly...?"

"You're doing fine; don't dwell on that. Just go along with it, and you'll see how easy it is."

"G-got it…" Noxian pride setting itself aside.

Melodious music floats in the air, and an arrangement of colorful outfits swirl all around them. The blend of harmony and atmosphere paint them in a scene of elegance and refinement in motion. A thought pops in the mercenary's head.

"I have a question for you, if you don't mind."

"What is it?"

"Well, you've been walking around, fighting, and now dancing without the slightest sign of tripping over yourself…"

"What's your point?"

Ephrial arches his eyebrow slightly, "When did you learn to move so well in heels?"

Her face flushes with embarrassment, and she turns away. "I-I don't want to talk about it…!"

"I see. My apologies for prying."

"It's fine—It's just…a long story."

"Another time, perhaps?"

"Am I going to have to wear a dress again?" she looks back, returning the lightheartedness from earlier.

The mercenary-knight titters lightly. "That would depend, I suppose."

"On what?"

"Is this just an excuse to go to another ball?"

"Careful. I already threw you out of a window once," sharing in a smile.

A moment passes in a comfortable silence as they begin to dwell upon the events that have lead them here. The set of various decisions of both have brought them together and split them apart, several times.

"…It hasn't been very long, but it seems like we've been at this for an eternity," Riven's smile fades.

"Yeah…" the mercenary-knight's grin dissolves, thinking about a road that has even partially repeated itself with a detour through time itself.

"…When you sought me out, I was…less than kind to your proposition."

"Don't worry about it."

"That's not it… You said you would follow me, even when I protested. Yet, I have been the one following _you_ this entire time. Even at this very moment, you're leading me through the steps of something I've never known about, nor would have ever thought I'd find myself doing."

Ephrial holds his silence.

"Who **_are_** you…? Then again, maybe I don't even know myself. I _used_ to be a leader… Now, I'm just…" doubt begins to cloud her.

"You _are_ a leader. It is because of your decisions that I chose to follow you. You planned on waging a war all on your own, regardless of the cost. In the face of massive opposition, you made it your choice to stand for what you believe in…alone. You decided that yourself, even if that meant turning your own beloved nation against you. Your example is something many have surely noted when watching you on the Rift."

"Then in what way are you following me?"

"Well, in order to have your back, I have to be standing behind you, right?" a sly command of the figurative and literal paints a smirk again.

Riven lets out a small, breathy chuckle at the suave antics of a cunning wordsmith, shaking her head slightly. She takes the rose from his tuxedo and places the stem in the mercenary's mouth.

"There. That should hold your tongue," putting her hand back on his shoulder with a devious, but thankful half-smile.

A wordless minute passes by as they continue to step forward, backward, and around each other in a growing harmony. Their surroundings dissipate around them, and only the music seeps through. As the symphonic strings stretch to a fade, so, too, does their waltz. Gazes locked, they slowly reach for their masks, sliding them off without breaking eye-contact.

The crowd around them claps for the band, as well as the gigantic cake being rolled out. Following the tradition of the masquerade, everyone removes their decorative guises, and the celebration begins to reach its final stage.

Before either can say a word, an energetic blur of white approaches from the side. Sophia takes Ephrial's arm into both of hers, and she tugs him away.

"You don't mind if I borrow him for this next dance, do you?" she says with an innocent smile of excitement.

The instruments begin to play again, more upbeat than the last. Ephrial takes another glance at Riven, as she becomes dissolved into the crowd of aristocratic attire. He finds himself entwined with the baroness of House Arvino, who looks at him with a youthful glee. She abandons the formality in her speech, and becomes a candid version of herself.

"Finally, I have a chance to talk with you!" she smiles, taking the rose from Ephrial's mouth, and placing it back into his tuxedo's jacket.

"We were talking just last night."

"I know, but that was under pressing matters! This is different. I haven't seen you since you saved me. That is, until I discovered you had joined the League of Legends."

"I didn't think that was your kind of thing."

"I was very sheltered, remember? Most of the time was spent staring at a crystal or spinning wire."

"Even so."

"Come on, everything else is boring. Besides, people watch it for inspiration. That's something the world could use a lot of right about now."

"Inspiration can be a very dangerous thing," having reservations about the Institute.

"That's why they need more people like you to show them the way."

"Like me?"

"The League is filled with the most dangerous monsters and otherworldly beasts that can paralyze the average man with a mere glance. Yet, you face them all with such conviction. No matter how bleak things look, your spirit never fades. You are an example of what a single man can do, making even the most hopeless situations turn against the tide. Everyone loves a comeback story; an underdog. …A hero."

"I'm not a hero."

"That's _exactly_ what a hero would say," pressing her admiration with a tap on his nose.

"What have you been up to all this time?" changing the focus.

"Work, mostly. With my father unable to resume his position over the family assets, and my mother's passing, it has fallen to me to assume all duties."

"I'm sorry you've had to deal with so much."

She shakes her head with a smile, "Don't be. Because of you, I am alive to experience things I would have otherwise never had a chance to. Even now, I have you to protect me if things go awry. Speaking of which, have you turned anything up yet?"

"Nothing so far, though I should apologize to a couple of your guards in the bakery."

A short giggle, "I'm more than certain they are willing to forgive the mix-up. This is the beginning of a brighter future for each of us, after all."

"I hope you know what you're doing. Revolutions always come at a price."

"Yes, they do. As time goes on, I find myself learning more and more that with privilege comes sacrifice… Tell me, what did you think of my speech?"

"Inspiring. However, as I have said just before, inspiration can be dangerous. The other side of it is that those with dark ambitions may view it as…weakness," offering a Noxian perspective. "You might find yourself a target soon again."

"What of you? Are you not going to stick around?"

"Only as long as I need to. I'm here on…business," he uses the term she can best appreciate.

"Oh? Rescuing damsels in distress again?"

"Not quite."

"What is with the serious look on your face? You seem…distracted, even."

"There is much going on, and the more we find out, the less we seem to know. With everything being so ambiguous, there are not many people we can trust."

"You trust _me_ , don't you…?" Sophia tilts her head inquisitively.

"If I trusted every single person I've saved, I would long be dead by now."

"Harsh…but, I understand. I, too, know what it is like to be alone. There are still times that I can't even trust my own shadow. But I do trust **you** , and I think that's been enough to keep me company all this while."

 _"_ _..._ _ **zzzt**_ _…mpromised…._ _ **zzzt**_ _…evacu…_ _ **zzzzzzzt**_ _…much time!"_ the Sheriff's voice cracks through a line heavily saturated by static.

"Caitlyn?"

Sophia, puzzled, "…Who? And why are you talking to your wrist…?"

Muffled sounds of popping begin to echo into the ballroom, just beyond the doors. The crowd becomes curious, and the music stumbles to a halt. The explosive cracking becomes more rapid, and grows closer with every burst.

"Is that…?" the young baroness finds the sound familiar.

Before the room's attention can be fully diverted, an explosion rings out from above. Shattering glass rains down, and one of the large chandeliers begins to plummet from the ceiling.

Ephrial yanks Sophia off to the side, narrowly avoiding the edge of the jagged crystals as they crash into the floor. The Piltover noble lifts her head, wide eyes looking upon the devastation of the misfortunate souls caught underneath the collapse.

Screams of terror and anguish fill the room, and people begin to run for their lives. Bodies of fallen Arvino security burst through the doors, and bullets begin flying. Chaos and fear take over the ambience, and death forces itself in as an uninvited guest.

"Get to cover!" the mercenary-knight pulls Sophia up, leading her out behind an overturned table.

Hextech bullets trace their path, and those caught in the way become torn with vicious projectiles.

"Stay down!" Ephrial holds her head as he peeks his own above the improvised shielding.

Through the confusion, he spots the sources of the massacre. Piltover's own COPS unit spread gunfire into the crowd without prejudice. The cold, lifeless gaze of their optic sensors stare without any form of humanity. They do not so much as flinch at the splatters of crimson over their own metal bodies. Once programmed for the safety and service of Piltover's citizens, these machines are now set to murder them.

"Who's attacking us!? Is it the Thatermauges!?" Sophia panics.

"Worse," Ephrial glares at the machines, finding the scene all too familiar during the attack on the Institute.

Two private security guards rush to Sophia, urging her to come with them.

"Lady Arvino, we have to get you out of here immediately! Come with us!"

"Wait! Ephrial—!" she protests.

"Go with them." The mercenary-knight, limited on options, switches to the officers in tan uniforms, "Take her to your most secure location. Don't trust anyone."

The men nod, and begin forcefully escorting her through a nearby hallway.

Ephrial springs to action, jumping over the fallen table, and dashes through the crowd. Doing what he can, he shoves the adjacent people around his path out of the line of fire. A glint from the ground catches his eye; a fairly large knife from the buffet tables meant for carving cheese.

Rolling under a set of burst fire aiming for his head, he scoops up the blade, and hurls it at the red lens of the cybernetic officer just feet away. Sparks and currents of electricity begin to sputter wildly, and the gun in its hands begins to fire upward as the robotic officer falls back.

With a quick yank before it hits the ground, the mercenary-knight pulls the knife out, and uses it to sever a large portion of wires from the neck of another. Twisting the metal body around, he grabs hold of the arm, pointing the gun at a cluster of COP units. He holds the firearm steadily, riddling the killer products of techmaturgy with bullets, using the one in his grasp as a shield.

Riven rushes to his side, plowing through a handful of Piltover's compromised security bots with a large flagpole bearing the Peace through Progress banner. Security belonging to every baron present at the party begin making an entrance, guns blazing as they fight their way into the ballroom.

"Caitlyn! Vi! Are you still there!?" Ephrial yells over the sounds of battle.

A voice yells back through the static. _"Heads up, rookies!"_

The two look above to see a pair of mechanical hands break the skylight, and drop their swords through. They make a break for the middle of the floor, running over the bodies of the fallen, and avoid getting caught in the crossfire. Before the blades can touch the ground, they snatch them from gravity's control, taking flighted steps into the fray.

Despite their disadvantage in range of attack, the efforts by the barons' guards create a suitable distraction for the pair of swords to close in. Metal shreds, and bullets ricochet amidst the shouting of battlecries and fleeing citizens.

 _"_ _Give me a gun! I can help, too!"_ an excitable Jinx starts to get hyper from the chaos.

 _"_ _No way in hell!"_ sounds of the Enforcer's fists at work reach through the communications as she speaks.

 _"_ _Aw, c'mooon…what's the worst that can happen!?"_

Even without a visual of the scene on the roof, the swordsmen can feel Vi staring callously at her.

 _"_ _Point taken!"_

A blast of static, and a high-pitched tone rings in their ears. Caitlyn's voice crackles through, _"Can anyone read me?!"_

Ephrial kicks up a gentleman's cane into an enemy's gun, disrupting its aim, and allowing him to step in for a heavy slash. "Caitlyn, what's going on?"

 _"_ _Someone has taken over the COPS network! They have turned on our own officers, and are causing havoc on the city!"_

"So much for the idea of concealing their endeavors…"

 _"_ _I just spotted Sophia's limousine exit the premises. It's being chased by drones!"_

Turning to his partner, "Riven, we have to move—!"

With a thunderous burst, the majority of the ceiling crashes in on the far side of the room, and Vi meteors over a COP prototype with her oversized fist.

"Come on! Show me what you've got, tin can!" Vi continues to throw denting punches into the hull of the machine.

Jinx, with a stroke of luck, falls through the caving roof, and lands on the cake. A few short breaths later, and her head bursts out of the side, covered in a sugary mess.

"Ugh! Well, at least it made for a **_sweet_** landing, hahaha!" licking her lips.

A machine just like one from the delivery depot flails on the ground. Its railgun begins shooting wildly as it attempts to shake off the Enforcer's barrage of blows.

Ducking underneath a wave of extreme water pressure from the prototype's cannon, the two wanderers lurch forward. With no time to waste, they athletically weave through the erratic streams of bullets and laser-like jets of water. Almost like another dance, they cross and leap around each other. Within moments, they arrive at the fallen machine, and split up.

A fiery cleave severs the hydraulic cannon, and Ephrial moves to tackle the triple-barreled machine guns mounted on the arms. The Exile hops on top of the titan, joining Vi in the attempt of breaking into the cockpit. She jams the tip of her sword in a small gap between the frame and heavily reinforced glass. Using the broken blade as a lever, she pries the windshield enough for Vi to slip her mechanical fingers under. With a combined effort, they force the hinges open, and the glass shatters with the opposing resistance.

Vi winds up her arm, slowly drawing it back. The plates of her gauntlets begin to expand, charging with energy.

"Here comes the punchline!"

With all of her might, she launches her fist into the control panels, causing a small eruption. The two jump out of the thick cloud of black smoke, landing by Ephrial. A firefight still rages on around them, and they crouch by the foot of the destroyed mech for cover.

"We'll leave the clean-up here to the private security forces. Do we have any transportation we can use to follow Sophia?" the mercenary-knight asks.

 _"_ _Make your way out back to me. I had our hexcycles brought over in case of such an event."_

"The hallways are bound to be full of these rampant machines…" Ephrial starts contemplating an efficient strategy.

"Hah! Finally, we get to do things **my** way!" Vi charges forward.

The Exile and mercenary-knight follow after her, not entirely certain of her plan. They take a straight path to the wall, and a mechanical hand grabs Jinx by the hair, pulling her out of the massive confection along the way. Another charged fist primes itself, and she releases the gauntlet, allowing herself to fly forward with the momentum.

"Sometimes, you gotta **make** a door!"

The one-girl wrecking crew smashes a large hole in the wall, opening the way to another room of the palace. Dust begins to settle, and they see a large number of COPS stand over the bodies of fallen police officers and private security detail. Red lenses turn toward the League's champions, adjusting the focus of their optics with a combined zipping sound. One by one, batons spring out of their arms, each wrapped in vicious currents of electricity, amped up to a lethal voltage.

"We don't have time for all of them. Rush through!" Ephrial begins slashing away, aiming for the set of breached doors at the very back.

Blades and fists combat the automated movements of an enemy that does not know hesitation, fear, nor reason. Experience in overwhelming combat has the group break the ranks of the former police units, diving in without missing a beat. They have an objective ahead of them, and their unique skills plow through circuits and wires, leaving almost as much devastation behind as when the hijacked COPS themselves introduced with their assault.

The night air greets them as they reach the outside through a dilapidated exit. Lights and sirens illuminate the sky, and the sleepless city cries with the sound of unprecedented mayhem. In front of them is a row of several police bikes, more than enough for the group to each have one.

"Now **_this_** is what I call a party!" the Loose Cannon looks all around with wide-eyes, and a smile brimming with wonder.

A rough Enforcer throws her onto the seat of a hexcycle by her dyed ponytail. "Enjoy it while you can. After tonight, the only sights you'll see are behind bars!"

"Ow! Hey – take it easy! If you keep yanking my hair like that, I'll end up looking like **_you_** ," mocking Vi's half-buzz hairstyle.

"Caitlyn, where are you?" Ephrial raises a cufflink to his mouth.

A static-filled response crackles through before fading completely. "… ** _zzzt_** _...Heading North…_ _ **zzz**_ _…_ _ **tzzz**_ _—ventor's Square…_ _ **zzzt**_ _..."_

"Where?"

"Inventor's Square, at the center of the city. It's a place dedicated to the founders of Piltover and their history, or somethin' like that," Vi mounts and revs up her motorcycle. "Come on, let's go smash some heads already!"

Riven and Ephrial hop aboard their own cycles, powering them up, and twist the handlebars for full-throttle. Rubber shrieks along the ground, creating a trailing cloud of dust and skid marks.

The streets teem with floundering traffic and gunfire, and drones zip around zeppelins in the sky. Police forces, both human and synthetic, wage war in the air and on the ground, with all of Piltover as the battlefield. Panicking citizens run for cover, making mad dashes for shelter inside buildings, or behind vehicles.

An unlikely group of misfits steers through an urban no man's land, racing past obstacles and various hazards. The clockwork city-state begins to puff with smoke of artillery and combat, finding its gears grinding with tension and fear as the destruction rapidly spreads. Spotlights and combusting aircrafts ignite the darkness above, and thunderous explosions echo throughout the streets and alleyways.

Ahead, the top of a skyscraper crumbles beneath the massive heft of a police zeppelin plowing into it. The titanic fireball begins to plummet in their direction, accelerating at the speed of gravity. Glass and rubble begin to shower down, and the airborne inferno nears the end of its collision course, right on the heads of the hot pursuit.

"Split!" the mercenary-knight veers to the left, leaning the vehicle into a sharp, skidding turn.

The others navigate into the opposite direction, cutting through a backroad. A powerful shockwave of the impact ripples along the ground, tearing up the pavement into fissures of uneven, exposed terrain. Underground pipes break, spewing steam into the air, creating a burning haze of vapor and flames from the wreckage.

A part of the ground juts out from underneath Ephrial's hexbike, flinging him off into the windshield of a parked shipping truck. The glass shatters under the force of his body, creating an indentation of himself in the metal of the frame and hood.

He begins to shake off the daze from the impact, and a relentless spirit peels himself off of the vehicle. Falling back to the ground, he catches himself on his feet and a supporting hand. A totaled police bike sputters and whirrs next to him, powering down into an inoperable mess. Rising back upright with each step forward, Ephrial begins to approach the flaming disaster that divides him from sight of the others. His formal attire torn and frayed, and a smudge of soot smeared across his cheek, he cups his hands over his mouth and calls out to the other side.

"RIVEN! VI!"

His only response is the crackling flames of the lively wall of flame before him. A moment passes without any word, and he prepares to shout again.

 _"_ _We're fine! Quit yelling in my ear!"_ the Enforcer crackles over the communication.

The mercenary-knight turns his attention to a scratched cufflink. Placing a hand over his earpiece to hear better, he listens through a weakening connection.

"We're going to continue heading toward Inventor's Square. Just keep heading North, and we'll meet you… ** _tzzz_** _…_ _ **tzzt**_ — _"_ her words fade and cut short.

A determined gaze of cerulean looks to his side, spotting a path that cuts through crumbling constructions of clockwork and stone. Nimbly crossing the obstructions in the way, he leaps through an opening, and begins darting down a lonely alleyway.

"This isn't good. I can't keep up on foot like this…" thinking aloud to himself. "There must be another—" a loud, deep whistle blows in an area relatively close by.

Ephrial's snaps to the direction of the sound, recognizing its signature steam-powered bellowing.

"The train…? Perfect. Something that important has to pass near, or even through the Square!"

Not even the stiff form of dress shoes slows the swordmaster down. Swift steps exit the shade of the alley, and he sees a large puff of steam rise from the rooftops of the shorter buildings. Bounding over the aftermath of a car collision, he begins taking the road leading toward the origin of the locomotive's beacon.

Like a sizzling sound, a dull pitch grows louder in his ear. Ten yards forward, and syllables become audible tell-tale signs of words. Ephrial hears a familiar voice in the midst of static-clad clamor, trying to focus on one voice in what sounds like a tight crowd of people.

"Caitlyn, is that you?"

 _"_ _ **zzzzt**_ _…Ephrial? Good, you must…_ _ **zzt**_ _…close."_

"Not close enough to where I need to be," the train's whistle rings out again.

 _"_ _Follow that sound! I'll need all the help I can get to evacuate these people!"_ the Sherriff says over the much louder echoing of the steam blast from her end.

"What happened to Sophia's limousine?"

 _"_ _I lost contact with her when those blasted machines ran me off the street, and shot my bike to pieces. She was taking the bridge, the last I saw. This locomotive will take us to her, and we can save these people at the same time!"_

"Are you certain this train will take us right where we need to be?" he swings around a corner, and a mob of corrupted COPS turn their cold stares toward him.

 _"_ _Absolutely. I've been informed the police have created a perimeter around Inventor's Square, and that's where we're taking these people. The train is set to move soon! Hurry!"_

The Blazing Swordsman unsheathes his blade, brimming with a focused fervor. A cerulean gaze meets the red lenses of machines turned against their very purpose. Deft footwork of determination brings a sword closer to a gunfight with each stride.

"I'm on my way."


	37. Chapter 37: One Way Track

**-  
Chapter 37**

 _ **One Way Track**_

Springs and bolts skip along in Ephrial's wake, littering the ground as he carves his way through gun-wielding techmaturgy. Sharp eyes mark the barrels of the firearms, mapping the trajectory of projectiles before they even begin their path. Flashes of steel and fire break through the ranks of another cluster of enemies, and the sight of a locomotive is cleared.

Steam puffs in the air with yet another loud whistle, and the linked wheels begin churning over the rails. Bearing the immense amount of weight between all the coaches attached, the engine starts off slow, and the train begins gradually picking up speed.

The mercenary-knight takes a detour, leaping through a window that leads into a tunneled passageway. He rushes up the stairs of a sheltered catwalk, nimbly stepping between the collage of lost possessions and fallen cybernetic operatives of Piltover. The heads of most of them have been blown clean off, and several nets pin a few metal bodies together. This is clearly the work of Caitlyn, a clever sheriff bottlenecking the rampant COPS, sharpshooting through the crowd of fleeing citizens.

A large gap appears ahead, where an explosion must have been triggered to stop the pursuing enemies from catching up during the evacuation. Singed metal and concrete slabs twist and crumble along the edges, creating unstable footing along a divide, over twenty feet across.

Racing against time, and unwilling to yield to a simple obstacle, the swordsman snags a net off a decommissioned robot, mid-step. He targets a metal beam that offshoots from the ceiling of the other side, stretching out above. Swinging the net by one of the spherical weights, he builds momentum with the others as they wind up into a blur. The ground beneath his feet begins giving way as he charges the opening, and he springs himself forward over a pitfall of fresh destruction.

Ephrial launches the net ahead, and it catches onto the piece of jutting steel. Holding onto his end, he swings his legs forward, clearing the gap. As soon as he lands, his footing begins to cave under, and he bounds from one disintegrating separation to another. One last leap off of gravity's pull, and he finds himself dashing down the steps that lead to the train station. A few more hurdles, and he lands onto the tracks, with the steaming locomotive straight ahead.

Bullets begin peppering the gravel by his feet, and the mercenary-knight glances behind himself. A small mob of cybernetic units lay fire from a distance, marching together with a stiff uniformity. Severely out-ranged, he ignores them, turning his sights on the target ahead. Sheathing his blade, he propels himself forward in a full-on sprint.

The ground beneath quakes with the massive heft of the roaring steam engine and its cargo. Ionian training keeps his breath at a steady, even pace, and a relentless soul inches his way closer and closer. Ephrial extends a hand out in front of him, reaching for the railing on the back of the freight. Slowly, the gap closes, and in an all-or-nothing gamble, he lunges forward. The man of resolve grabs onto the rail, and lands his dress shoes on an iron panel next to the unlatched connector.

While he pulls himself up, sparks from hextech bullets sputter around him as the pursuing COPS fall out of range. At the lack of an accessible door, the swordsman begins ascending an adjacent ladder. As he reaches the top, the wind pushes back, and his hair flutters wildly. He begins stepping forward as the train accelerates, and a distant view of the center of Piltover appears in a dazzling glory of lights. An almost poetic scene unfolds, where past, present, and future converge; a swordsman rides a steam-powered locomotive into the heart of the city's progressing industry of boundless technological advancements.

With a voice hazed in static, Caitlyn reaches through the earpiece. _"Is that you, Ephrial?"_ hearing shuffling and rushing wind on her end.

"Yeah. Seems I've made it just in time. I take it the passengers are okay?"

 _"_ _For the time being. We should arrive at Inventor's square in approximately ten minutes."_

"I see."

 _"_ _I'm currently in the fourth car from the back."_

"Almost there."

Explosions and gunfire echo out from the far distance, the sky igniting a nocturne warzone. Spotlights beam desperately in the air, amidst artillery shells and flaming skyscrapers. Ephrial crosses over a few freight cars, and reaches a passenger caboose. He dips down into the space between the link, and slides open a door. Eyes filled with fear and uncertainty glance at him as he passes through. Many of the passengers huddle with their families on the seats, parents comforting their children. Officers and citizens alike aid the wounded with what they can improvise onboard, and shell-shocked faces stare out the window at their falling city.

Piltover's citizens have become so at ease in their daily lives, spoiled by the splendors of technology, that they've lost touch with just how dangerous Runterra truly is. Irony proves a harsh teacher as their very security is now their cause of terror.

"I'm surprised you made it in time, Vigilante," the Sheriff brushes past a few officers, approaching Ephrial.

"You're not just going to say that and throw me off because I don't have a ticket, are you?"

"Very amusing," a stiff, posh voice responds.

"Tell me, how firm is this stronghold at Inventor's Square?"

" _'_ _Stronghold'_ would be a generous term…but it should suffice, due to the prototype techmaturgy presence there."

"It remains to be seen if more hextech involved in this is a _good_ thing."

A sudden shock rocks the train, causing it to rattle back and forth on the rails. Screams of panic fill the car, and a torrent of bullets begin tearing away at the windows, scattering shards of glass all about. The two veterans of intense combat dive for the floor, and avoid the crossfire as two aerial drones sweep the flanks.

Piltover's uniformed police begin answering the flyby with their own weapons, while some tend to the freshly wounded.

"Are you alright?" Ephrial raises his head off the littered floor.

"Just another day on the job," Caitlyn answers, picking herself up, and brushing off her formal dress.

"We have to draw their fire away from the crowd," starting toward the sliding door at the end.

"You'll be a sitting duck out there!"

"Well, I guess it's a good thing I have a sniper watching my back," unhesitant steps reach the ladder from which he had come.

With the train now running at full speed, the wind, much stronger than before, beats down on Ephrial as he pulls himself onto the roof of the caboose. He stands up slowly, keeping his balance against the airy resistance. A pair of choppers pursue the locomotive along the sides, forming up for another barrage.

Ahead, a zeppelin hovers above the tracks, with ropes dangling below. As the train rushes towards it, corrupted units zip down them, descending on the various cars being hauled. Heavy metal feet slam down on the rooves as each of them land, creating large dents in their wake. Batons unfold from their forearms, and begin sparking lively with electricity. Targeting the first person they see, they begin rushing and leaping their way over towards the sharply-dressed swordsman.

 _"_ _This technology is ridiculously advanced…"_ inquisitive thoughts of the funding behind these creations murmur in the swordsman's mind.

The coat of his tuxedo flaps violently in the turbulence as he charges forth, blade poised to be drawn out in a flash. Tri-barreled Gatling guns begin rotating, and a winding sound introduces a spray of projectiles at the rushing Ephrial. Trails of sparks fly and scatter behind, tracing his path over the thick plates just barely able to withstand being breached.

Flames launch outward at the release of the fervor-charged sword, splitting two corrupted security units in half. Keeping ahead of the array of bullets, he weaves seamlessly around the electric weapons, letting the helicopters' friendly fire dissolve them away into mangled scraps. The steady mercenary-knight blazes through the last of the troop, racing the high-caliber rounds biting at his heels.

Ephrial's eyes are fixed on the gap in between cars, just ahead. Sheathing his blade, he hurls himself forward, feet-first. As he slides across the roof of the caboose, an explosion rings out from behind him. Diving down to safety, combusting particles and debris flurry in the air above, followed by a second explosion, and a subsequent silence. Pulling himself back up using a service ladder, he raises his head to take a peek.

Flaming chassis of the perusing aircrafts fall into the distance, crashing into a burning waste. He sees Caitlyn at the opposite end, tipping a much smaller, glamorized version of her tophat. Even when dolled up for a formal event, the Sheriff of Piltover is never far from her choice of headwear.

The swordsman responds with a nod, and drops back down to the transitioning doors in between train cars. A loud popping sound rings out, and the shrill screeching of grinding metal pieces the air. Ephrial leans over the railing, looking out to the side of the locomotive, toward the origin of the distress. A large blanket of sparks sputter viciously out from beneath, and the entire cabin begins to shake.

 _"_ _Do you feel that? One of the wheels has been badly damaged, and at this speed, the car won't last!"_ Caitlyn speaks over the communication device. _"Get these civilians out of here, and into the next one over!"_

"I'm on it. What about you?"

 _"_ _I'll hold them off before they can do any more damage,"_ she says over paced gunfire, calculating her sights on new targets.

The vigilante slides open the door to a crowd of panicking Piltovans. With the floor rumbling beneath their feet due to the compromised integrity of the transportation, everyone stumbles and trips over each other. Ephrial begins to work swiftly, directing people out of the caboose.

"On your feet! We have to move, now!"

He steps in, picking people up and aiding citizens and officers in getting through the transition doors to safety. Working together, the wounded are supported by helping hands and supportive shoulders, limping with urgency. Ephrial makes several rounds back and forth along the length of the car, making sure it's empty of all passengers. Another explosion shatters the remaining stability, violently rocking the transportation. Grabbing hold of the adjacent seat, the mercenary-knight keeps his balance as the compartment tilts sharply at an angle. A fountain of sparks begins to cascade just outside the window, and the screeching of twisted metal grinding against the track slices through the air.

Looking past the window of the door, Ephrial spots the Sheriff leap down from the roof, and slide the barrier open. Before she can set foot inside, bullets begin raining down through the weakened roof above them, tearing a trail of holes in its wake. Another wheel gives way, and the cart is now virtually being dragged on the ground by the pulling link. The combined weight of the cargo freights behind it creates a tumultuous situation for the two, knocking them down over themselves.

Another barrage from the side, above their heads, and the plates of steel and iron burst to pieces. Slabs and torn sheets open into large flaps, and the remaining roof begins peeling off with the locomotive's velocity. Spotlights belonging to the enemy choppers shine down on them, slowly steading themselves for a follow-up assault.

The two champions of the League lift up their heads from the broken glass and debris of splintered wooden seating. An exchange of looks, and they both race to their feet, making a mad dash for the next caboose over. As they approach the transition, the struggling frame of the car gives way, and half of the compartment tears off. The steel flooring collapses beneath them, slanting steeply as the end batters against the wooden planks of the track, and the edges skim across the rails. Scarcely remaining attached, the platform manages to remain fastened, tripping the two into a ramp that slides into a blender of metal and gravel.

Ephrial clutches the seat closest to the doorway as they fall, and his other hand grasps Caitlyn from descending into a messy demise. A drone hovers down in front of them, shining the bright light directly at the two. Without hesitation, the Sheriff of Piltover clicks something on the side of her rifle, using an ornate heel beneath her dress. Aiming the barrel of her trusty sniper down toward the tracks, a shot at a forty-five-degree angle launches a heavy net outward. The abundant force of the recoil propels her into the vigilante, in turn, knocking them both into the next car.

The sound of another attack rings out, and the remaining portion of the caboose rips off in a dramatic flip, taking the wall of this one along with it. Recovering from a messy, improvised landing, the two look up to see that pursing light pour down on them once more, leveling itself out with the opening.

Both the swordsman and sharpshooter snap their gazes to the next exit, and scramble to collect themselves from the ground. The persisting panic and gunfire has caused the evacuating passengers to continue forward into the next cars, leaving the current one abandoned with the exception of some loose possessions in the process. Without wasting a step, the two dash forward, side-by-side, barely keeping ahead of a machine gun as it peppers down upon them. The propellers of the COP adjust, allowing it to chase them through the inside of the caboose, plowing through the seats as it presses forward on its targets.

Forcefully sliding the door open, they manage to outrun the bombardment, and turn around at the door leading into the adjacent car. A torrent of bullets still persists, and Ephrial swings his blade out of its sheathe. Turning his attention to the heavily reinforced links that now connect them and their foe, he lets out a heavy slash at the thick steel. The blade slices clean, leaving a molten orange glow on the separated pieces, and the train begins pulling away from the loose car.

A miscalculation with the change of environmental speeds, and the corrupted unit's propellers collide with the caboose, causing it to spin itself into the side. The drone tumbles over itself inside the parted cabin, and the heat of a fiery explosion reaches the champions as they cover themselves from the hail of chaff and wreckage. A faint barrier of orange shields them from any direct impact.

Lowering their arms, they see yet more incoming COPS in the air, fast approaching. They turn over their shoulders, looking through the glass of the transition door behind them. The car is highly saturated with people, well-over the suggested capacity. All of the ongoing danger has the passengers pushed back in as far as they can go, pressing together like sardines in a can.

"This isn't good," the Sheriff, concerned for the citizens of Piltover.

"We can't let them come close. These people are easier targets than Fizz in a barrel."

"There are too many for me to take out in time before they open fire on us."

"…I have an idea," a cerulean gaze narrows.

A feeling of worry washes over her, a reaction common with those that are the slightest bit familiar with the mercenary-knight's improvisations. However, with so many innocents at stake, she is willing to try anything.

Ephrial begins climbing the ladder to the roof, and Caitlyn follows suit. Fighting against the wind, they lower themselves to minimize air resistance as they rush to the front of the train. A continuous cloud of steam and smoke puffs overhead, getting thicker as they move onward.

The city approaches steadfast as their rural outskirts begins to run short. The tracks, kept somewhat distant for safety reasons, are nearing the end, and Inventor's Square comes into view. Low on time, the marksman becomes anxious.

"What is it you're up to, Vigilante?"

"We're going to separate the engine from the rest of the train."

"That'll just slow us down, **really** making us sitting ducks!"

"Not if we speed up first."

She arches an eyebrow, piqued at the idea of accelerating the train so close to the city. The begin nearing the front, now able to see the tracks ahead at a fair distance.

"That's your only target," Ephrial points ahead.

Sharp eyes scan towards his direction, spotting a railroad switch as far as her eye can see.

"I'm going to give the engine a boost, pulling us away from those tailing machines," he continues. "Just before we reach that switch, I'll sever the link to the rest of the train."

"And that's when you want me to shoot the switch, changing the tracks so we and the passengers are sent toward Inventor's Square for safety," Caitlyn completes his idea with deductive reasoning.

"Right."

"Exchanging several targets for one in a high-risk exchange. Bold…but efficient."

The Sheriff, onboard with the plan, takes a knee, and adjusts her scope ahead, poising to hit the switch to set it off course. Ephrial dips down from the caboose, and enters the engine. A pocket watch, lying open with a picture of a family inside, and the absence of a conductor, tells of a sacrifice to get the train moving in a time of desperation.

A shot rings out from overhead, and gives the mercenary his cue to speed the engine up. The steam core is one of Piltover's oldest designs, so it still runs on coal to produce the heat necessary for operation. An ardent blade plunges itself into the furnace, and the combination of Noxian grit and Ionian tenacity sends the flames into a blaze of fury.

Steam floods out of the top of the engine, and the connectors of the wheels begin to rattle. Fueled by a fiery resolve, the train pulls ahead, gaining some distance from the following set of state-of-the-art security drones.

Caitlyn drops down from the roof, and Ephrial withdraws his blade from the furnace, joining her on the cabin's platform. A quick swipe at the iron pin holding them to the steam engine, and a gap begins to widen. The sharp eyes of a sniper concentrate with all their might, accounting for wind, velocity, and an extra-narrow target after taking off a chunk of it with her first shot. The rumbling of the tracks puts more pressure on her, sweat beading on her forehead.

Ephrial kneels down with her, offering his shoulder as a support in place of a bipod. Caitlyn accepts, resting the barrel of her weapon for a steadier shot. The wind becomes fiercer as the shade of the steam engine pulls further away, exposing them to the open air and turbulence.

The Sheriff shuts one eye, and peers through her scope with the other. A blurred image adjusts itself as the rifle calibrates the proximity of the target. Timing is everything, as she must hit it perfectly in order to keep the engine going forward, and send themselves on the track that leads into the city. The switch will be extremely close at the appointed time, but hitting anything other than the extremely attenuated lever will produce no results. Pushing all the disciplines of a patient sniper to the limits, Caitlyn breathes through the process of setting her sights. Gritting her teeth, she begins to squeeze the trigger, and a loud pop blasts out.

A sound of metal receiving a collision replies as they whizz right by the railroad controller, and the switch becomes nothing but the briefest of blurs. They jerk to the side, grasping hold of the railing as the cabin takes a sharp turn to the right. With their velocity well above the legal limits, the carts lift off the tracks to one side, and narrowly fall back onto the railing. Screams of panic emit from beyond the door behind the two, as the passengers are taken by an abrupt turbulence.

Now resuming a straight course, the remaining cabooses of the locomotive race ahead. Behind them, the steam engine explodes into a fiery inferno, into the trainyard just beyond a patch of tall trees. The two allies lift themselves up, and the officer looks out from the side of the rail.

"They're still chasing us!"

"I wouldn't worry about them. Should they continue, they'll be taken care of by your forces. If Inventor's Square really is a garrison of sorts, they must have some anti-air defenses," Ephrial surmises from the explosions in the air around the skyscrapers.

He aids the sheriff up a worn ladder and follows after, climbing back up to the roof. They cross over to the rear of the last cabin, keeping low with the rushing wind at their backs.

"I wonder how the others are doing. That partner of yours has quite a temper," Caitlyn states flatly.

"She isn't so bad. Then again, you should know all about that kind of thing," he notes her undisciplined enforcer.

"A valid point. Although, I wonder how she puts up with your…unpredictability," comparing and contrasting the differences in their respective partnerships and dispositions.

"Well, I don't exactly have an answer for that yet. Though, if I had to guess, she's probably wondering the same thing."

They both leap down to the shallow platform below, facing the retreating end of the tracks as everything in view becomes more distant.

"Then, that brings me to my next question… How do we stop?"

"…We hold on."

A weary sigh. "Ugh… There should be a law against you having any ideas…" she crouches and braces herself with the safety railing.

The station appears around a bend, coming a little too quickly for comfort.

Ephrial seats himself on the opposite end, casually wrapping his arm around one of the bars.

"You look rather calm, all things considered," Caitlyn notes, squeezing the bars tightly.

"I suppose I'm only as excitable as I allow myself to be," he caters his answer, seeing through her mindful deductions between his level-headedness and the fervor he displays in battle.

The debonair guest of Piltover reaches into his formal jacket, pulling out a very small, frilly top hat. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it onto the barrel of a resting rifle. A posh owner watches as it spins around on the tip of her gun, and as if in anger, spares a hand to snatch it. She places her favorite form of accessory back on her head, holding it in place in the gusting wind.

"…You really are some sort of middle-ground of two unlike nations, aren't you? Seemingly reckless and forceful at first glance…yet calculated and selfless, even for those of whom you have no stake. Perhaps I've misjudged you, Vigilante. …Thank you," letting down her stern demeanor for a moment.

"Heh," he titters a grin. "Coming from an officer of the law, I'll take that as a compliment." A fading smile, "…I should thank _you_ , in turn."

"What for?"

"For calling me a 'vigilante'. Though many people know what I truly stand for, there are still many more that can only see me as just another bloodthirsty Noxian. At least the term 'vigilante' acknowledges actions rather than mere heritage."

"Hm. I didn't take you as one to get easily offended by names."

"I'm not. There are just…certain stereotypes I need to clear. It's an ongoing endeavor on behalf of someone else…"

"…Your sister, I presume?" having done her research, and being naturally skilled at deducing situations and intentions.

The mercenary-knight gives a slight nod.

"I see. If it's any consolation, I have no doubt you will continue to change the way people think about you, and Noxian-Ionians in general. At least, once they see just what kind of crazy stunts you pull off. Don't get me wrong — you're still a criminal in the eyes of the law! But, you're my kind of criminal," finding herself reminded of the dangerous potential she would normally lock behind bars, Vi being that first exception.

The two share a short, light laughter.

Ephrial maintains a grin, leaning his head back up against the railing, and closes his eyes. The officer and vigilante speed toward their destination without control, relying only on friction to slow them down. Hurdling toward an impending crash, they find themselves strangely at ease. Perhaps due to the intensity of all the chaos, as well as the brand of extremity that the League introduces in battle, Caitlyn, too, finds a calm in the part of a storm they can do nothing but be still in.

"Does this mean I'm exempt from all the destruction I've been involved with in Piltover, or will I just have to pay a fine?"

Caitlyn tilts her head down and brings the rim of her hat over her eyes with a smirk, trying to match his level of relaxed demeanor in the face of explicit danger.

"Hm. Remind me to think about it later… If we live, that is."


	38. Chapter 38: Rush Hour

**_-  
Chapter 38_**

 _ **Rush Hour**_

"Ephrial! …Ephrial…!" the Exile shouts at a fizzling communication device.

"It's no use. We're out of range," Vi speeds up the incline of a devastated street, her sparkle-clad prisoner in tow.

Spotting a few straggler COPS ahead, a mechanical hand stretches outward, and tears off half of a lopsided streetlamp. In a swift drive-by, she navigates next to them, sweeping the pole through their heads, leaving behind three decommissioned chassis sputtering to the ground.

"Yeah! Get some!"

Riven makes a quick swerve to avoid running over the aftermath, still getting the hang of maneuvering a hexcycle. "How much further until we get there?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, Tough Girl, but the commute ain't exactly the best right n—Whoa!"

Upon summiting the top of the sloping avenue, the Enforcer pulls on the brakes, denting the handlebars in the process as she stops herself from lurching over her vehicle. The silver-haired Exile follows suit, turning the bike on its side to counter her momentum. She skids forward across the pavement, grinding to a screeching halt, and they both look onward at the sight below them.

A distracted parolee slides forward into the seat, slamming into the officer. "Hey! Don't you know how to drive this thing!?" rubbing her face in pain. She leans over Vi's shoulder, and becomes taken by the view ahead. "Oooooohhh!"

The view before them stretches over a vast set of streets and overpasses, winding around in a network of transport. Being rerouted by the collapsed building has taken them up the peak of Skywind, an inventor district primarily involved in aeronautic advancements and study. The breezy, uphill part of town overlooks a large portion of the ravaged city. A sleepless Piltover stirs in a war for survival, and the clockwork pace of life within its borders becomes clogged with chaos.

"Oh…my gosh… IT'S BEAUTIFUL!" Jinx cackles. "I mean, yeah, it could use a few more missiles, BUT THIS IS SO COOOOOL!" an outbreak of excitement piques.

"Shut up!" a vexed enforcer calls back, only slightly turning her head, unable to tear her eyes from the devastation.

"This is…" the ambient explosions and screams bring the war veteran back to her days as a soldier in Ionia.

"A perfect time for photos!" a cheerful voice lets out, whimsically spinning around in her seat. An overly-happy Zaunite stretches out a blocky camera, pointing it directly at herself and her staggered rival. "Okay, now smile and say 'bullets'! No, wait! Make one of your lame angry faces. You know, the ones where you're all like **'GRRRR'**!"

Vi turns around, teeth gritting with a strained temper.

"That's the one!" A red, sparkling menace shoots the device a ridiculous, loony face. With a brilliant flash, the lightbulb on the camera crackles, and the small gears, both inside and outside the gadget, begin whirring with motion.

"Gah!" recoiling from the unexpected blast of light. "Where the heck did you get that thing!?" a glare between the mechanical digits of her gauntlet.

Jinx gives a poor imitation of innocence. "…Whaaaat? It's not like he was using it anymore!" rolling her eyes. "Ooh! I'm totally going to use this one for this year's Snowdown cards!" grabbing the freshly printed snapshot of the two, a crumbling City of Progress filling the background. "Now let's get a group shot!"

Before she can prime up another take, Vi crushes the hextech device in her hand, letting the pieces crumble and fall between her fingers.

"HEEEY! Okay, fine…! You're off the Snowdown card list!" crossing her arms as much as her binds allow, pouting angrily.

"Why can't you two just get along?" she reaches a hand to simulate her disarmed Fishbones.

"Is that our destination?" Riven interrupts, pointing at the large tower at the far extent of their vision.

A cluster of spotlights scour the skies for aerial threats behind a large perimeter of flashing red and blue. Between the trio and the resisting barricade of Piltover's bravest lies a congested set of city roads, teeming with gunfire and impasses of ruination. At the end of the labyrinth of obstacles, a bridge stretches across the massively wide river that serves as a waning power source to most of the city-state.

"Looks like Cait was right. They're still holding out, but they won't last long separated from the station's armory," Vi surmises that the defensive line is operating with very limited supply of resources.

"How are we going to cross this mess in time?"

The Enforcer looks off to the right, spotting a track that winds over the city, between the taller buildings. "We take the highway!"

"Alright! Road trip!" an excited menace can't wait to get a closer view of the mayhem.

"Shouldn't you be wearing a helmet?" Fishbones chimes back in.

"You know I can replace you, right?" shooting the mechanical shark a dirty look.

Vi turns the handle, and the engine roars with life. The party of maverick women speeds down the turning slope that directs into the meandering roads ahead. Abandoned and overturned vehicles litter their path, the scent of smoke, oil, and burnt circuitry thick in the air. A blockade of Piltover's heavy police cruisers comes into view, and a row of guns point in their direction. The unlikely officer turns the flashing lights of her hexcycle on, becoming a red and blue blur.

Recognizing the reckless antics of their pink-haired comrade, the squad lowers their weapons with a sigh of relief—a normally worrisome sight, now welcomed amidst a dire situation. They let the two cycles zip past them, taking cover from the blast of wind as they careen by.

Ahead, more officers stand in the street, guiding a slow-moving crowd of cars into the highway ramp, doing their best to keep order among the anxious people waiting their turn to evacuate. Vi switches the sirens on, making their presence and intent clear as they show no signs of slowing down. A moment's hesitation, and they take the hint, diving out of the way.

Piltover's Enforcer leans back, pulling the front wheel off the ground. Using a fellow officer's car as a ramp, she leaves a crushed mess as she launches into the air. The rear tire demolishes the speed limit sign as she makes a landing onto the service road reserved for maintenance. Startled civilians watch from the bumper-to-bumper standstill as the trio roars along the empty street beside them.

"I'm surprised, Tough Girl. I thought you would have fallen behind a long time ago…or crashed into a pole by now," Vi glances behind her.

"I'm not going anywhere," the Exile responds coldly.

"We'll see how long you can keep that attitude up. This is just the easy part!"

Riven pulls her way next to the other two, sharing the width of the lane created to accommodate much larger vehicles built for construction.

"We may have a smooth ride for now, but we'll be taking an early exit up ahead."

Piltover's network of highways are quite literally high above the ground, established to allow their dense and ever-growing population and technology to traverse the city while keeping traffic at a smooth, clockwork pace. Clever and innovative usage of structural shapes and archways support the overpassing roads while simultaneously providing bridges for pedestrians to safely cross over many of the lower streets, and even from building to building without returning to ground-level.

The sound of propellers hacking through the air approaches from behind. Before they know it, bullets rain down as two drones sweep diagonally across the road in front of them. A few vehicles explode ahead, and panic ensues. Piltover's civilians begin abandoning their automobiles and start making mad dashes through the narrow spaces in between rear-view mirrors and open doors. Officers draw their weapons and take cover, readying themselves against a follow-up attack.

Vi shields her face with a hextech-clad arm as she speeds through the protruding tongues of flames that scorch from the wreckage. "They're trying to cut off the exit!"

No stranger to cruel and effective tactics, the ex-soldier finishes the Enforcer's grave thoughts. "No one here will have a chance to survive."

Ahead, they see the pair of aircrafts making a wide turn in the air, setting themselves on a course to run a devastating barrage down the length of the crowded highway. As a criminal turned officer, Vi's heart sinks into a pit in her stomach. She had been used before, once masterfully hacking through security measures for those that acted as her family. She never realized how many people she had been guilty of helping others hurt…or the pain she, herself, had caused. It wasn't until it fell on her own shoulders, abandoned by her former gang, that she was forced to realize the impact of her deeds, and faced with a choice.

Now, the city she has come to call 'home' is falling to ruin before her very eyes. Her second chance, her new life, is under attack. Worst of all, it's at the hands of those built to protect the same people she swore an oath to—the very technology that flows through her own arsenal powers the pulls of each trigger on a civilian.

She closes her eyes, finding herself in the black corner of her mind, surrounded by nothing but darkness. Emerging from the shadows, the blue uniforms of Piltover's finest surround her in cold, red stares. The emotionless killing machines remind her of herself…what she could have become. They were the inverse of her own identity. COPS turned criminal, emotionless and machine. Relentlessly, the glinting of their badges reflects the red light of their optics, mocking her into a dizziness inside of her own thoughts. The Enforcer lowers her head, looking at her own mechanical hands. She opens her eyes back up to the same sight, snapping out of a flash of cold sweat. An oversized fist clenches, once built for construction, now for demolishing crime.

"No…not in **_my_** city!" revving up the engine to the max.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?! We don't have anything to take those things out!" Jinx, finding even Vi unpredictable in her current state.

"Aw, what's wrong, Twinkletoes? Afraid of a lil' fireworks?" a taunting tone with a big grin.

The length of the traffic jam and chaotic people becomes a blur with the major boost in speed. The very humming of the motor begins to wobble as the frequency pitches higher with the acceleration.

Ahead, a little girl wanders and weaves between the legs of a fleeing crowd. Her eyes rapidly sift through the panicking motions all about, and in a small clearing in front of her, she spots what she had lost in the havoc. Ignoring the calls of a distraught mother behind her, the miniature Piltie tunnels her vision onward. She travels as fast as her little steps can take her and drops to her knees, retrieving the doll, and proceeds to wipe the dirt off of it.

The mother finally spots her daughter in the middle of the street, innocent and completely oblivious to the fast-approaching aerial threat. She tries to fight against the current of retreating people, stumbling between bumping shoulders and hopelessness.

Vi lowers her body over the cycle, reducing air resistance, and keeps her eyes wide-open through the fierce wind. A lopsided crane lies ahead with its arm reaching out and over the escape route. Jinx quickly connects the dots to her rival's intentions.

"Are you kidding me? This hunk of junk is going to get blown to smithereens against that thing!"

"Yup."

"And I thought **_I_** was the crazy one here." She begins to notice herself slipping off the seat during the incline. "I never thought I'd say this, but of all the belts I've worn, I wish I had a seatbelt right about now!" Jinx's pale fingers begin slipping off of Vi's jacket.

The wind takes her, and she falls fast behind the speeding Enforcer. A sudden jolt sweeps her out of her descent by her collar. With a swift gag of being nearly choked by her own clothes, she finds herself being dragged above the ground by a strong arm that has been trained to lift a sword heavier than the entire Zaunite herself.

A stretching length of creaking metal reels as the furious hexcycle summits the crane's reach. For a moment, time slows down for Vi as her heart pumps faster. Everything falls silent, and she calculates her leap. Her reckless nature finds the officer in yet another live-or-die moment, pushing through with what is normally a disregard for consequences, now a dire resort as her only chance to save a life.

Bullets begin to cascade down on the road ahead, tearing up everything in their indiscriminately destructive path. Piltover's Enforcer goes airborne, sending her vehicle in front of her. With a flash of light and heat, the bike collides with the first drone, sending it barreling to the side in a fiery course to the streets below. A swift deluge of bullets reaches the clearing before sweeping out to the side, avoiding the brunt of the explosion.

A scared little girl shivers, clutching her plushie in a vice like death's own grip, shutting her eyes as tight as she can. In a state of pure confusion, she gathers the courage to slowly peek out in front of her. The silhouette of a slender woman with massively disproportionate arms comes into view.

Standing between her and the lethal assault, Vi stands tall, arms risen defensively. Sparks of her blast shield fade as the mechanism whirrs at the expense of its charge. The high-caliber rounds hovering around her frame begin to drop, dancing along the ground like metallic rain. The impulsive daredevil glances behind herself, a clenched jaw easing itself at the sight of the unharmed child.

A peculiar doll catches her eye. The treasured plush figure in the little girl's arms is that of a popular character from a children's show—A hero, donning armor of superior hextech design, known for bolstering enemies with powerful fists of oversized fury. Vi's sights switch to meet that of the would-be victim, an innocent pair of eyes lost in awe and wonder. The unlikely officer, finding herself back in her overconfident element, flashes a cocky grin.

"It's coming back!" Riven yells from the maintenance road, Jinx in tow.

Her smile dissolves with the moment, and the punk policewoman begins to make a run for it. She scoops up the little girl in her enlarged grip and weaves between the demolished vehicles. The attack comes from the side, veering back toward them after a forced abrupt turn, crosshairs focusing on the pink-haired threat. Tracing behind her steps, a stream of bullets hails down without reserve. Windows break and metal shrieks as the merciless projectiles puncture through the torn lanes. It follows her feet, getting closer until the aircraft reaches the edge of the elevated highway, passing just above their heads.

Jinx passes the child off to her frantic mother, and barks at the nearby officers. "Get these people out of here! Stay off the high ground!" a giant finger points from where they came.

A treacherous path on foot might prove better odds at escaping the city alive. A revving engine catches her attention, and she turns to see a civilian flipping his hexcycle upright, fixing to speed his way past everyone. She reaches out, stopping the bike with one mechanical hand, nearly causing the young man to flip over.

"Nice bike," she says with a mischievous Cheshire grin, flashing her badge with her other hand.

With a newly commandeered set of wheels, Vi uses a nearby portion of wreckage to ramp herself back onto the service road, joining the others.

"Good job, Fathands! Didn't think you had it in ya, blowing something up like that!" a red, glittery Jinx gives a thumbs-up from Riven's bike, hanging over the back of the seat on her stomach like a hunter's quarry.

"That thing is coming back around, and I don't think this place can withstand another attack," Riven keeps an eye on the drone as it takes a wide turn around the skyscrapers.

"Well, it clearly wants a piece of me now," Vi notes the intent path adjusting itself toward her position again. "Come on!"

The brash Enforcer charges down a barricade in the side of the service road, falling to another stretch of highway below. Riven, with the pressure of taking an extreme crash course on Piltover's unique transportation methods, takes a deep breath before following Vi. Their hexcycles hit the ground running, rubber squealing as they skid and burn. The two bob and weave around various equipment and holes in the road.

Still a rather new development for the city-state, this portion of the highway remains unfinished. The winding network of cement serves to separate the booming industry of automobiles from the horse-drawn wagons and pedestrians as the city grows. While cars, hexbikes, and zeppelins have found themselves more commonplace due to funding brought in by various League victories in Piltover's favor, much of the city still relies on older technology. The very machines that lie dormant in the path of the racing hexcycles rely on old-fashioned steam cores; an ironic and literal demonstration of paving the way for the future.

Speeding bullets begin peppering around them from behind, the hexcraft still tailing them. The rushing girls turn around one skyscraper, and follow the lane through another. A persistent AI follows them through, expertly maneuvering its course around the various bridges and buildings in its airborne path.

"Geez! Is this thing ever going to run out of bullets?" Jinx looks back, her voice changing from agitated to excitedly envious. "Where can I get one of those!?"

"Ahead of us…is that—?" Riven notes the collage of spotlights and explosions surrounding a very large building ahead in the distance.

"Inventor's Square," Vi promptly answers her. "We're almost there! If we can keep alive until we reach it, we can get something to blow that thing out of the sky!"

"And just how are we going to do that?" Jinx asks as the vehicles come close. "This road isn't finished yet, Fathands!"

Vi's face says it all. A jolt of realization hits her, and she falls silent.

"Well!?" the disguised Cannon presses, tauntingly.

"I'm working on it!"

The road becomes a long stretch, reaching the enormous river that flows beneath the city-state. With no buildings around, and a simple, straight path ahead, Riven and Vi push their mechanical marvels to the maximum, keeping ahead of the torrent of supersonic projectiles. Amidst a wide, open view, a large plume of trailing smoke over a shrill screeching of metal commands their attention. Racing them in the distance is Piltover's proud locomotive, towing several cabooses in distress. The three women of the League can make out a chase involving the same type of aircraft as the one biting at their heels.

"What is that?" Riven asks, still vastly new to the city-state's esteemed progress.

"That's the Arvino Railway Train," Vi responds. "Soon to be a relic of the past, if you ask me."

"We're **_all_** going to be relics of the past if you guys don't speed up!" Jinx finds herself growing uncomfortably close to the receiving end of bullets.

"Ahead of us!" the Exile calls out.

An arrangement of cones, barricades, and construction equipment lies ahead, heralding the end of their escape route. The road stops short of the land ahead of it, too far for the group to jump it, even at full speed.

"We're not gonna make it! Oh well. I have no regrets. Except saving the train for last when I could have blown it up right away," Jinx watches the sparks fly violently behind a collapsing passenger car. She cups her hands over her mouth, shouting over the water, "HEY! THAT ONE WAS MINE!"

As if in response, the caboose flips over itself, tearing a chunk out of the one in front of it before being completely obliterated.

"I hope no one was onboard," her voice puppets Fishbones.

The Loose Cannon rolls her eyes and gives a solid thwack over the metal shark's head.

"Wait a second! That dumb fish of yours just gave me an idea!" Vi has a sudden thought.

"Well this ought to be good…" a sarcastic Jinx doubts.

"We can make the jump if we had the right _boost_ ," eyeing the abandoned set of construction equipment ahead.

"A 'boost'…? Do you mean an explosion?" Riven inquires.

Jinx's tone suddenly changes, torn between excitement and concern that this is _Vi_ 's idea; someone not known for making plans. "Oh boy."

"Yeah…that'll do nicely…" narrowing her eyes on a fixed target. "Better keep up, Tough Girl!" she beacons Riven.

They zoom through the barricades, shattering them into splinters. Paying no mind to the collateral damage ahead of them, they keep a straight path ahead. Vi focuses steadily, raising one mechanical hand out to the side. As they pass by, she tears out a large metal rod from a pile. Positioning the supportive beam meant to act as a skeleton for the future portion of the bridge, she charges a rather tall, yet fairly narrow steamroller. Like a lance on horseback, she runs the beam into the metal frame of the construction vehicle, whirring by in a blink. She looks back and sees steam rapidly spewing out of the impact.

"Yes!" she exclaims in triumph.

A direct hit to the steam core has caused it to rupture, becoming rapidly unstable. The road cuts short just ahead, and she leans backwards, bringing the front wheel up. Riven follows suit, having witnessed both Vi and Ephrial do the same. Jinx, still sprawled over the back of the seat like the catch of the day, clings on as best as she can.

With a thunderous boom, the rest of the core's integrity surrenders to the damage, causing it to combust. The outwards force of the shockwave rushes into them, propelling them forward. Chunks of asphalt and roadwork tools chase behind them as they narrowly make a landing on the other side of the gap, barely keeping their balance. Bullets persist through the cloud of smoke and steam as they press forward.

"Ugh… That was…AWESOME! CAN WE DO THAT AGAIN!?" Jinx quickly shakes off the dazing blast.

"Not on your life, Sparkles!" another jab at the menace's disguise. "Only **I** get to destroy bits of my city!"

"WHAT!?" temporarily deafened from the blast.

The girls of the League rush onward, still plagued by what seems like an endless deluge of gunfire. Once again surrounded by a mixture of towering buildings and walkways, the hexcraft pulls up, becoming forced to distance itself.

"Come on! We're almost there!" Vi shouts back at the others.

"Uh, did that thing finally give up?" Jinx watches their flying foe cease fire and take off into another direction.

"About time!"

A cautious Riven looks around. "It's coming back!"

Dipping down to their level, the aircraft sweeps in from their flank, swinging out ahead of their path. It aligns itself on a collision course with the group, and begins emptying countless shells at them. The three are forced to take an early exit off the highway, swerving onto the upcoming ramp. With a sharp turn, the three barely manage to escape a fatal sweep.

They find themselves at ground-level, weaving between squads of rampaging robots. A business district, filled with various passageways, bridges, and modern architecture, provides ample cover. The chasing gunfire multiplies, as the alerted cybernetic foot operatives ping their communication relays. From all sides, the champions of the League face an onslaught of heavy fire.

Vi takes the helm, shielding their path with a giant gauntlet. The Exile brandishes her blade against the groups as they zip past, eliminating their chance to shoot them in their backs. The very city crumbles around them as resisting citizens fight back against the oppressing COPS. Exploding hextech devices and energy shots add to the mix, and the zooming hexcycles find themselves in the middle of an all-out battleground.

The sounds of a nation warring for survival drown out their very thoughts—the intensity enveloping them in chaos. Destroyed landmarks and foundations paint them a rough terrain as they maintain their speed, trying to avoid getting caught in the crossfire as well as accidentally run over the fighting Piltovans.

One last twist around a corner, and the cycles are forced to a stop. A blockade of a burning police zeppelin bars their path, cornering them in between flames and gunfire.

Like a persistent plague, the pursuing hexcopter emerges from the buildings behind them. The girls look back, bracing for the overwhelming spray of high caliber rounds. They abandon their vehicles, and run for cover behind the remains of demolished steam-powered cars. Struggling to get a direct shot, the AI descends itself to their level, maneuvering itself low to the ground.

"What's it waiting for…!?" Vi questions the lack of a deafening stream of bullets.

She peeks above the frame of a dented hood, and focuses in on their cybernetic adversary. Is that…!?"

"Oh, now I definitely want one of those!" Jinx raises half her body out of cover.

Unraveling its ace-in-the-hole, the face of the airborne threat opens to reveal the head of a missile, priming itself for launch. Not unlike Jinx's own rockets, this long-distance projectile ignites, speeding toward them with incredible velocity.

"MOVE! NOW!"

The three begin to scramble for the nearest building, avoiding stray gunfire in the process. Riven barges down a door, and the others follow her into an empty lobby of a devastated hotel. A distressed street dissolves into an exploding cloud of fire and smoke, sending debris and glass in behind them.

"Ugh…so that's what it's like," the glitter-clad Zaunite picks herself up, holding her dizzy head.

A bruised Vi rises to her feet, "That was too close…even for me! How are you holding up there, Toughy?"

"I'm fine," the Noxian ex-soldier brushes off the effects of the blast. "How much further until we reach the Square?"

"Man, you're _really_ one-track minded. Can't wait to see that boyfriend of yours, huh?"

"He's not my—!"

"—Okay, okay," raising her oversized palms. "All I'm saying is that it's really hard to slow you down, even in a dress."

"Sooooo…you're saying he's single?" Jinx leans in to Riven, getting a rise out of messing with people.

"All right, move along, Powder Puff," the Enforcer shoves.

The odd trio begin making their way through a long, narrow corridor. Lights flicker, barely illuminating their steps as they cross through the hotel. Doors left wide-open, and scattered belongings tell of an abrupt evacuation. Craters and bullet holes riddle the floor and walls, leaving a wake of destruction brought on by the robotic crisis.

A familiar chopping of air approaches, and a spotlight beams down on them from the side. The relentless hexcraft levels itself out beside them, just outside the windows, and begins firing at them, strafing to the side along the three.

"This thing just doesn't give up, does it!?" Vi sprints along the rest, maintaining Jinx in her custody.

"We're almost out!" Riven spots a dilapidated door ahead, leading into Piltover's streets.

Muzzle flashes from the machine gun's barrels create a strobe effect in the darkness of the hallway. Holes punch into the walls around them; the very vibrations of the impacts shaking heavily in the air. Together, they burst out the doorway, landing into the middle of a razed trade district. The drone runs out of space to chase them, and flies upward, trying to relocate its targets.

"Geez! Can't you just apologize to the thing, already?" Jinx, tired of the rampant AI.

"Keep going! Inventor's Square isn't far ahead!" Vi tugs on her restraints.

Following her lead, the others press forward, crossing a river of pandemonium. Remains of a firefight lie all around them, both mechanical and organic. For the first time in this outbreak of corrupted AIs, they experience an eerie quietness. The absence of close gunfire and explosions has them on edge, but the anxiousness of being so close to safety keeps their focus tunneled ahead.

A sharp glint of reflecting light catches Jinx's eye. Riven, seeing it as well, begins to call out to Vi. A split-second is not enough for word nor blade to reach, as the crosshairs of a standard-issued rifle already has the officer's head in its sights. In less than a heartbeat, the sound of a gun's discharge shatters the quiet moment.

Vi lands hard onto the concrete, her heavy hands speeding her descent. The Loose Cannon is pulled down with her grasp, landing over her back. A moment passes as Riven can only look on with confusion written on her face. The hijacked cybernetic unit, now missing its head, freezes. It's body slowly falls backward, motionless.

Jinx, with an outstretched arm extending toward the threat, lies with a hextech pistol smoking in her hand. " **Zap!** "

"What the…!?" Vi pushes Jinx off of herself and takes a moment to recover, collecting a grasp of the situation. "Did…did you just save me…? **_YOU_** …!?"

"Don't get the wrong idea, Fathands! If anyone's going to end you, it's going to be ME! Besides, it's not nearly as fun if only _one_ of you guys chases me," still finding much amusement in getting underneath the skins of both Caitlyn and Vi together.

"Aw…that almost makes me want to punch your face in a little less…" the maverick officer reaches out and crushes the weapon out of her hand. "Almost."

"Heeeey! Don't I at least get SOMETHING for good behavior?"

"Hey, I've let you keep all your teeth so far!"

"Ugh. You're the worst parole officer ever."

The group continues forward, only about one more block away from Inventor's Square. Sounds of struggle for survival continue to echo around them, and the distant blasts become louder and louder. Above them, zeppelins battle it out for air supremacy, seemingly at a violent standstill. Troops of fellow humans in uniform appear in the distance, organized movements fighting to create safe passage for citizens. Artillery launches from ahead, firing into the nocturne sky to rid a perimeter of aerial hostiles.

Raising a large, metal finger to her head, Vi presses on a communication device in her ear. "Cait, can you hear me…? You there, Cait?"

Only the fuzzy emptiness of static responds. Riven follows suit, calling out the mercenary-knight's name into her corsage.

"Ephrial! …Ephrial, where are you!?"

Jinx rolls her eyes, "Oh give it a rest, you two! Annie's throwing arm has more range than those cheap things!"

"You want to see how much range **_my_** throwing arm has?" the steampunk Enforcer glances back.

Bullets begin to rain down on them once more, peppering their surroundings. Their attention snaps to the tenacious flying machine that has followed them across half of the city-state. Adrenaline pumping fiercely through their veins, the Legends of the League carry them through one final stretch.

"Keep going!" Vi shouts. She looks intently at the police forces ahead, hoping to see some sort of movement in their direction for cover-fire. _"C'mon… C'mon…!"_ thinking to herself, as if trying to tap into her comrades' minds.

Flying at maximum speed, the robotic dispatcher of death rapidly closes in on them, and the bullets fade out. Exchanging rapid fire for blast radius, the nose of the aircraft parts again, revealing another rocket set in their direction.

The officers ahead beacon them with their hands, urging them to haul as fast as they can. As the girls draw closer, the police force begins to make their own run for it, noticing the massive firepower their pursuer is towing straight to them.

Throughout their chase, an adapting unit speeds toward them, closing the gap very swiftly. Upon each of its calculated moves being successfully evaded by the legendary females of the Institute of War, the corrupted program has decided to eliminate all chances of failure by setting up a very close-range missile strike. Its shadow begins looming over the three, and clockwork gears set in motion for the launch.

"Get down!" one of the nearby men shouts.

An explosion rings out above them, and everyone dives for the ground. Pieces of scrap and flaming debris shower the scene, covering the street in a blanket of wreckage. Lifting themselves back up, the group spots a nearby sign welcoming them to Inventor's Square.

"We made it…" a relived Vi breathes.

"What's that sound?" Riven, hearing a strange burst of static and broken sounds over the modified yawper in her ear.

"It sounds like…" the noise gradually becoming clearer and more distinct "The train…!?"

Hearing the running tracks of the locomotive nearby, they look over the neighboring buildings. They see a trail of puffy smoke and steam high in the air, turning a corner extremely swiftly, making an entrance to the Square.

"That thing is coming in way too fast!" she continues.

A shrill screeching of metal pierces the air, causing Riven and Vi to recoil as the sound shreds through their earpieces. Their devices suddenly go silent, but the sound persists overhead, amidst people shouting in alarm. Shrieking iron and steel turns into an abrupt set of heavy collisions, and the two exchange glances.

"Do you think they're…?" the ex-soldier asks the question on both of their minds.

"Only one way to find out!" Vi begins running to the source of the commotion, Jinx in tow.

A wild chase through the city-state has landed the odd mix of League combatants into the bastion of Piltover's last defense. An accelerated clockwork pace ticks by as the fate of the nation renowned for its technological advancement becomes darker with each passing second. Chaos reigns, shrouding the brilliant and bright future promised by the City of Progress. The fusion of magic and machine paints a harsh reality for the destructive potential such inventions possess, creating a bleak situation for all that dwell within its borders.

Time continues to count down as this catastrophe threatens to turn the land of tomorrow into a thing of the past.


End file.
